


White Russian

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas is dom and Dean's a lil bitch, Castiel (Supernatural) Topping From the Bottom, Chef Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mafia Boss Castiel, Mildly dubious consent (blackmail), Minor Character Death, Minor Internalized Homophobia, Minor Original Character(s), Russian Castiel (Supernatural), Russian Mafia, Slow Burn, Switching, dubcon body mod, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-10-15 13:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 132,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17529575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Dean Winchester and his brother Sam moved to the east coast to try their hand at the hustle and bustle of the city. Leaving their precarious and somewhat confusing past behind has been the best decision they ever made - that is, until the local mafia sets their sights on them. In order to protect Sam, Dean allows himself to be recruited into Castiel Krushnic's unconventional mob. There's something strange about the boss, though. Dean can't quite put his finger on it.That doesn't make him want to punch him in the face any less.Men are going missing throughout the city, and Castiel swears he'll get to the bottom of it. Dean, blackmailed into loyalty, has no choice but to follow Castiel on the ensuing chaotic journey to save innocent civilians.For the record, Dean still wants to punch the asshole in the face. But hey, he'll do his best to save the world, first.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> many, many thanks to [TrenchcoatBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatBaby). without you, this story simply wouldn't exist.  
> thank you to those who read the pre-release and were nothing but supportive and encouraging.  
> it's my one year anniversary, and i'm giving you all a gift!  
> to not ruin any fun surprises, as chapters are added, spoilery tags will be in end notes for those who wish to see them before diving in. i'll let you know at the beginning of the chap if there's any for you to scroll down to.
> 
> enjoy!

_June 18th, 2018_  
_10:42PM_

Dean has been hit plenty of times. Tonight is nothing new.

It is, however, situationally… different.

Something about him makes people want to crack their knuckles against his jaw. Maybe it’s the way he runs his mouth. Maybe it’s his aloof attitude. Maybe it’s jealousy - he can’t even begin to fathom the number of times he’s been called _pretty boy_ only for those words to be followed up with a beating. And it’s not like Dean doesn’t defend himself; he’s quite adept at fighting back and whenever his friends or family see a black eye or split lip his reply is always, “You should see the other guy”. A lot of the time men get threatened by Dean and his Southern charm, an obvious transplant in Boston with his honey voice and chivalrous manner. 

It was business that had brought him up from Texas two years ago. After graduating culinary school Dean laid out all the plans to open up his own little place. In Austin, however, the niche market for the type of cafe he wanted to open was depressingly small. All the lenders said the same thing:

_“This isn’t the right neighborhood.”_

_“This isn’t the right vibe.”_

_“Maybe if you went to College Town…”_

But Dean wanted to make money _and_ have a good location. There was going to be no compromise. Add an itch to get out of the life he'd been living for twenty years and you've got a recipe for wanderlust. He didn’t discover his passion so late in the game to let it go up in smoke. A call up to uncle Bobby had the crazy old coot suggesting Dean and his brother move towards Boston where their uncle had put down roots, trading small town life in Texas after the death of their father for the hustle and bustle of the city. 

Bobby had opened a bookstore and ran it like a well-oiled machine and he let Dean know the inside scoop of a restaurant space that had recently been vacated by a bankrupt business. Dean and Sam packed up, Dean snagged a loan, and the rest is - as they say - history.

Anyway, back to present: Dean is being held up only by the lapels of his coat collar, hands zip tied together, his six foot frame feeling a bit like a rag doll as he’s shaken and slapped one more time for good measure.

“This is how all my favorite dates start,” Dean manages to say through a split lip, teeth covered in blood when he smiles.

The burly blond man currently serving him his ass on a platter narrows his gaze. “This doesn’t have to be so bad, brother. Just tell me where he is.”

Dean snorts - a blood clot shoots out of his nose and he laughs when it spatters into the man’s scruffy beard. “What are you, French? I like ‘em exotic. This is my lucky night.” This guy is unnaturally strong. Is he juiced up on something?

Steely blue eyes narrow even further and the man shoves Dean up against a wall, Dean trying not to think about what kind of liquid is seeping through his coat to get sticky on his skin. This building is kinda gross. The resulting noise Dean makes from impact is a garbled wheeze and he can’t save his pride, wincing and closing his eyes as he tips his head back against the wall.

“Ok- let’s compromise,” Dean whuffs out. He’s clearly in no position to be negotiating, but this guy had come charging in with something _crazy_ in his eyes and on his tongue and Dean is a professional deflector. “I ain’t tellin’ you where Sammy is.”

The man gives him a warning shake, Dean’s head knocking back against the wall and sending stars exploding into his vision. After he swims a little Dean keeps his eyes closed, trying to rely on muscle memory to talk.

“Take me. What- whatever… he did, take me.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither men move. When Dean cracks a crusty eye open he sees the man examining him thoughtfully. Suddenly gravity is Dean’s abuser as the man lets him go and allows him to drop to the wet, dirty floor, Dean gasping for breath and trying to roll onto his back so he can open his lungs and regulate his breathing.

“Don’t move,” the man warns, before turning his back.

Dean tosses a weak thumbs up. “D’accord.”

The man pulls out a cell phone and brings it up to his ear. Through blurry vision Dean assesses the situation; the man is wearing a fitted, _nice_ suit, the straps of his shoulder holster visible whenever he rotates his arms a certain way. Armed, brutish, but apparently not so stupid since he’s taking Dean’s offer into consideration. He speaks on the phone in hushed tones and then hangs up, sliding the device into his pocket as he looks down at Dean - who knows he’s just the picture of pretty as he sends a charming, bloodied smile up at his assailant.

“Gonna show me what’s behind door number one?” 

The man raises his fist, and everything goes black.


	2. '67 In Heaven

_Six months earlier…_

“Sammy,” Dean greets his brother as the other man enters the cafe with a huge grin. “What’s the news?”

Sam could probably power a third world country for three thousand years with how bright his smile is, his long hair swept up into a chic messy man bun that Dean had stopped making fun of when he noticed how many dates Sam got once he started wearing it. “I got the loan. I’m gonna save Bobby’s store.”

“Awesome!” Dean enthuses as he comes out from behind the counter to give his giant brother a tight hug, slapping his back amiably. “So proud of you Sammy. I knew you could do it.”

Sam ducks a little under the praise, but he’s still preening. “Things are really looking up for us, Dean. How’s the cafe doing?”

Dean gives both thumbs up and points them at his chest, “Guess who topped last year’s numbers, has a projection for exponential growth, and has two thumbs?”

Sam’s smile broadens even if he rolls his eyes a little. “Being this close to Quincy Market definitely helps.”

“Oh hell yeah, dude, having fresh ingredients a stone’s throw away is seriously the shit,” Dean amends with a chuckle and a nod. “Who bought your sob story, by the way? I was kinda under the impression that the Boston locals would give you a tough time like they did me.”

“An independent lender. Gabriel Krushnic,” Sam replies, his smile softening a bit. “It took a couple of weeks, but I finally convinced him the investment was well worth the risk.” After all, _Uncle Bobby’s Books_ is an old favorite for college kids who need supplies on a budget. It would be a real disservice to the school and the students if it went under, something Dean knows just from the students that frequent his cafe. 

This Gabriel guy did good in giving in to Sam’s puppy eyes.

“And by ‘convincing’ him, you mean…” Dean trails off suggestively, tossing a saucy wink towards his brother.

Sam has the audacity to blush lightly. “Dinner. Drinks. ...Frequently.”

Dean makes a hurt expression as he lays a hand over his heart, “I never thought I’d see the day you would sell your body for money, little brother.”

Now Sam rolls his eyes so hard Dean thinks the earth may have shifted beneath their feet. “Ha, ha. He’s actually a really nice guy.”

“Really nice in bed? Or…” Dean dodges Sam’s hit by hopping directly over the counter to the safety behind the pastry case, a shit eating grin on his face. Pushing forty and still spry on his feet. “C’mon, Sammy. I’ve always known you bat for both teams. This is me being _supportive_.”

“This is you being a dick,” Sam snips, not a lot of heat behind his words. He lifts an accusing finger, “And don’t think I forgot about your ‘experimental college days’ that you told me about.”

Dean’s smile turns a little far away, “Man… good times.” 

“Anyway,” Sam claps his huge hands together, “I just came to share the good news. I’m heading over to the bookstore to meet a contractor so we can go over renovation designs.”

“Bobby’ll turn over in his damn grave if you do anything frou-frou to that place,” Dean warns, voice stern but his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Don’t worry honey, I’ll bring you paint swatches,” Sam quips as he turns around to start walking out of the cafe. 

“See ya later, bitch,” Dean calls.

Sam’s resounding, “Bye, jerk!” gets a little drowned out by the tinkling bell overhead as he opens the door to exit.

Things really are looking up for the Winchester boys.

Owning a restaurant had always been a dream of Dean's. When he was little and his mom used to bake him fresh apple pie and stuff him with chicken and dumplings he daydreamed about when he would be big enough to help her. When she got sick and passed away, Dean's dreams had gone with her, and when their dad started teaching them the rough and tumble Winchester way, he never gave it a second thought.

He loved his father as much as he did his mother, so why should he have questioned him? Dean and Sam fell into a routine with their dad; camping, survival skills - general outdoorsy things that, at the time, had seemed pretty normal for boys to do to bond with their dad. 

But then their father died when Dean was seventeen, and _everything_ turned on its head. Routine got swept out from beneath them once again and Uncle Bobby was there to pick up the pieces. Bobby enlisted Dean as a mechanic at his Texas redneck shop part time and helped him get through school, which also helped Sam get through school as well down the road. Eventually Bobby packed up and went east, leaving the shop with his friend Rufus and the notion that it was too painful to hang around without John Winchester. 

Dean’s childhood dream to run a restaurant, then, morphed into the need to create a business and profit from it, something more practical than pipe dream. 

Something he could support himself and Sam with.

It was a rough start. Bank after bank laughed him away. Dean finished culinary school and worked in a fast paced high-end hotel kitchen for five years while he finished his business courses. Originally Sam had signed up for college courses to get business and finance degrees so he could co-own a business with Dean, but after Bobby had fallen ill and left the bookstore to Sam in his will, Sam’s direction changed as well, degrees applied towards a different goal. 

Making the trek up to the east coast ten years later had been stressful and terrifying. Uprooting everything they’d ever known - their childhood home, their childhood dreams, and the beautiful cemetery where their parents were buried; Dean sometimes felt like he was walking through wet cement. 

But days like today, when Sam’s smile is so bright and carefree and Dean feels a unique lightness in his chest and not a whisper of that stress is licking at his subconscious...

Days like today make the struggle worth it.

\--

_Three months later…_

“Lookin’ good, Sammy,” Dean compliments as he enters _Uncle Bobby’s Books_.

“Dean!” Sam greets him enthusiastically from behind the counter. There’s another man with him, short with golden hair and a secretive smile, who stays leaned against the counter as Sam rounds it so he can greet his brother with a handshake. “Glad you could finally come.”

“Well,” Dean rocks back on the heels of his boots, taking an appreciative glance around. Sam had taken Bobby’s aesthetic (dusty, messy, hoarded) and put a nice twist on it. There is still a lot of product displayed on the rows of shelving, the shop looking more like a pint-sized library than a second hand (third hand, let’s be real) store, and there’s really ugly (new) wallpaper that Bobby would be proud of. All in all it looks pretty good, and Dean appreciates that it _feels_ good in here, too. “Glad it still smells the same.”

“A true delicacy is enjoying the smell of old pages and worn leather,” the stranger comments. 

Sam seems to remember his guest, snapping his fingers and grinning. “Ah, Dean, this is Gabriel.”

Gabriel pulls away from the counter to straighten, holding his hand out amicably towards Dean. Dean decides immediately that he likes the playful glimmer in the man’s eyes, before he takes in the designer khaki suit he’s wearing. Interesting. “Gabriel Krushnic. A pleasure to finally meet you, Dean.”

“Must be getting serious if we’re meeting,” Dean muses.

Sam shoves his shoulder lightly, “Shut up. He’s checking in on his investment.”

“Indeed,” Gabriel’s eyes turn towards Sam’s body, gaze raking him up and down, “I am.”

Dean grins wolfishly. “I like you.”

Gabriel sighs, “Sorry, you’re about three inches shorter than my type.”

Dean lifts a hand to measure himself against Sam. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t need a step stool to reach my mouth.”

A twinkle lights in Gabriel’s eyes, “Who says I’m using a step stool to _kiss_ him?”

Dean balks playfully. “Ok- now I’m weirded out.” He turns to Sam. “I was gonna head to the bar for some drinks, you in? When does this hole close, anyway?”

“Not all of us can get away with having our business open for six hours a day,” Sam wrinkles his nose up a bit. “We close at eight so the students can come when it’s convenient.”

“If you were tryna be convenient for college kids you’d be open twenty-four-seven,” Dean says, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Anyway, I ain’t waitin’ around for you. I’m gonna head out. See you at home.”

“Bye,” Sam says, exasperated.

Dean, as usual, pays his tone no mind as he exits the shop and slides his hands into the pockets of his coat as he heads down the sidewalk towards his favorite after-work watering hole. The cute blonde bartender smiles when Dean walks in and he sends her a smile in turn before taking up post in a booth, shrugging off his jacket and scrubbing a hand over his face.

“What can I get you tonight, Mr. Winchester?” Mandy, his favorite waitress, appears at his elbow.

He smiles beatifically up at her. “Whiskey. And your biggest, baddest burger with a side of fries and hot sauce.”

“The usual,” she notes, even though her voice is fond. Overly fond. Mandy is cute, Dean knows, but every time she looks at him he knows that she would twist his flirtations in the worst way and expect something more than a quick fuck or even a makeout session. Dean’s not built for that. Not anymore. Plus, she’s much younger than him and while sure, at some point ‘age is just a number’, he’d rather not be accused of having a midlife crisis by dating someone twenty years younger than himself.

“The usual,” he says with a wink.

She walks away with a purposeful sashay in her hips and Dean resolutely doesn’t watch her, instead turning his gaze out towards the other patrons of the bar. At six-thirty on a weeknight the population is sparse, a few people enjoying pub food and good drinks, but there’s someone at the bar that catches Dean’s eye, their presence a bit… out of place. Which is a feat in a neighborhood like this - filled with tourists and travelers - so of course, the man holds Dean’s attention. 

He can only see his back, an ugly tan trench coat adorning what looks like a pretty svelte frame, dark hair mussed wildly. He’s nursing a beer that looks barely half drunk and the bartender avoids even looking at him while she works around him to tend to the other patrons seated on the other stools at the bar. Dean thinks it’s a bit odd - the bartender, Amy, is usually friendly with everyone, her customer service always warranting a fat tip from pretty much anyone who comes through the door. And she makes a killer drink, so she’s good in Dean’s books.

His thoughts are interrupted when Mandy returns with his glass of whiskey, and before she leaves he catches her wrist, nodding towards the man at the bar. “He ok?”

Mandy looks towards the man in question, and her smile turns a bit tight. “Yeah- he’s ok.” She sends what she probably thinks is a reassuring smile down at Dean. “Don’t worry about us, Papa Bear.”

Dean grins at the nickname; he’d earned it shortly after moving up here by defending the bar girls against rowdy men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. Another reason he can’t date any of these girls. They feel like daughters. “If you’re sure. But you let me know if that changes, ok?”

Mandy skirts her glance towards the man at the bar, before she nods down at Dean, her shoulders a little tense. “I’ll go check on your food.”

Dean lets her go and watches her walk into the kitchen, disappearing behind the swinging door. He picks up his glass and takes a deep swig, still examining what he can of the man while he waits for his food. The man is pretty boring, though, barely drinking his beer, his attention on the televised soccer game playing in the center of the booze racks, so Dean pulls out his phone to start scrolling idly through a few things.

He’s halfway through tapping out an expense report when a plate is set in front of him, the delicious smells immediately grabbing his attention. Grinning and sliding his phone away, he sends Mandy a thankful smile. “You’re an angel.”

Mandy laughs a little, the earlier tension gone from her frame. “Oh, stop.” 

She walks away again to leave Dean to his food and he tucks in hungrily. Of course, he could always eat one of his own gourmet sandwiches; but nothing beats a slightly pink, juicy, crunchy burger. He spends the rest of his time at the bar licking grease and salt off of his fingers and finishing his expense report and when he leaves he makes sure he leaves Mandy a tip on the table, before making his way specifically to the bar to slip a fiver into the tip jar. 

Amy shoots him a grateful look as she refills the ice bin, and Dean takes the opportunity of the new angle to get a better look at Constantine. Dark hair, tan skin, stubble, but Dean can’t see much else because the man’s phone rings and he holds it to the side of his face that Dean is trying to examine. There are dark tattoos on the back of his hand and littering his fingers, a deeply colored titanium ring on his pinky. Huh.

Figuring that everything is alright, even if it’s kinda weird that the guy has sat alone, silent, for over an hour, Dean decides it’s ok to leave. 

Just because someone’s a loner doesn’t mean they’re suspicious.

Dean still makes a mental note to keep an eye on the guy if he sees him again. 

\--

Constantine is a constant (ha) in the bar. Whenever Dean is there, the man is there. He still never really gets a good look at his face, mostly because he decided that he doesn’t need to if he’s not causing trouble, but the man’s presence still seems to… _do_ something to the girls. Dean can’t put his finger on it, and none of the girls will spill.

When Sam and Gabriel decide to accompany Dean for dinner and drinks one night, Dean doesn’t miss the way Gabriel pales slightly upon seeing ‘creepy guy’. This makes him even more certain that there is something here that’s worth worrying about, and that he’s right in keeping an eye on him.

Sam, oblivious oaf, leads them to a booth and sits down, thanking Mandy happily when she sets down menus. “What’s the special?”

“Porterhouse,” Mandy replies with a smile. She pointedly doesn’t look at Gabriel. “How about drinks?”

“Round of beers,” Dean says, eyes on Gabriel as he lifts three fingers. A pause, and then he sends a smile to Mandy. “Local IPA sounds good.”

“I’ll have the cobb salad,” Sam says, handing the menu back. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’ll take the special.”

Gabriel also doesn’t meet Mandy’s eyes, “Lava cake, doll. Extra ice cream.”

Mandy gathers their menus and walks away without her usual cheerfulness and Dean squints a little, eyeing Gabriel for a moment before turning his gaze towards the man at the--

...bar.

Constantine is gone.

“Huh,” Dean says aloud.

“Huh what?” Sam asks from his place next to Gabriel.

Dean shakes his head, offering an easy smile to cover up the weird feeling niggling in the back of his mind. “Nothin’. So:” he folds his hands over each other as he leans interestedly towards the couple across from him. “Who catches?”

\--

_June 18th, 2018_

Closing up shop is an easy task, especially during this time of year when the sun seems to never set. Dean takes a step back after locking the doors and looks at his establishment, _’67 IN HEAVEN_ , feeling a deep sense of pride and satisfaction. Come Summer solstice he’ll be starting “summer hours” which means he’ll be open until eight instead of six, to accommodate the growing population of tourists and students that are done with classes. His projections look phenomenal and he feels sort of greedy for it, but in a good way. Two years up here have done him good.

He deserves a normal life.

“Dean Winchester?” A voice drawls from behind him.

Turning around, Dean is greeted by a husky blond man with a scruffy, gingery beard and bright, pretty blue eyes. Arching a brow, Dean pulls his hands out of his pockets politely. “That’s me. What can I do ya for?”

“If you would come with me,” the man points to a shiny, sleek black car parked at the curb, “we have some things to discuss.”

Dean frowns a little, glancing between the car and the man. He’s never seen this guy before, and the street is… oddly deserted, now that he takes a glance around. Anxiety knots in his stomach, and he tries to deflect it with a guarded, lopsided smile. “I’ve seen this movie. I ain’t gettin’ in that car with ya, bud.”

“Unfortunately, brother, you don’t have a choice.”

Strong hands reach for Dean, one covering his mouth to muffle his yells on the sleepy street, the other twisting his arm behind his back as feet kick his legs towards the car. The sheer strength of the man keeps Dean upright and when he’s tossed into the backseat the door slams and locks, Dean looking around wildly, feeling properly harassed and maybe a little panicky. He pats himself down- the man had pickpocketed his cell phone from his coat. Damn, this guy is good. Licking his lips, he notes the backseat of the car is pretty nondescript; leather seats, some cup holders, floor mats. He’s got nothing to work with.

“What the hell, man?” Dean demands when the driver’s side door opens.

The blond man slides behind the wheel and says nothing, pressing a button to roll up the partition to block the back seat from the front. Pounding his fist against the tinted glass uselessly, Dean slumps into the seat and rubs a hand over his face.

Alright. So he’s been kidnapped. Awesome. In broad daylight. Awesom _er_. He racks his brain trying to think of why _anyone_ would do this to him. He hasn’t screwed anyone over, he hasn’t stolen anyone’s girlfriend, and he’s never turned down service to a single person that entered _’67 IN HEAVEN_. Running his hands through his hair and lacing his fingers behind his head, he lets out a haggard sigh. He’s got no choice but to go along with this until he figures out what this guy wants.

So much for having a normal adult life.

They drive for maybe forty minutes, and when they pull over, Dean waits for the man to open up the back door of the car. Prepared, Dean barrels into the man and tackles him down to the ground, straddling his hips and sending a punch directly into his jaw. Startled but not thrown into defenselessness, the man grabs Dean’s wrists, twists his arms and bucks his own hips to throw Dean off, pinning him chest-down into the concrete. 

“It’s best not to fight me, brother,” the man gruffs from above.

Dean puffs out a breath, scattering tiny pieces of gravel. “Pretty sure that’s my best option right now.”

He’s hauled up to his feet by the back of his coat and the man wrestles Dean’s wrists behind his back to secure a zip tie, Dean wincing at the bite of plastic digging into his skin. They approach a scuzzy looking warehouse and the man leads Dean through various storage containers before they’re back in a damp, secluded corner, Dean getting tossed forward towards a chair.

“Have a seat so we may continue our discussion.”

Dean stands next to the chair, glaring petulantly. “I’ll stand.”

The man eyes him warily, before speaking. “I’m looking for your brother, Sam Winchester.”

That makes Dean’s jaw drop open a little. His hackles raise immediately at the thought of Sam’s safety being threatened. “What.”

The man slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks, not saying anything in reply, because obviously Dean had heard him.

“Is he in trouble?” Dean asks, searching his mind for every instant he’s been in Sam’s presence in the past few months. Sam has been nothing but good spirits since opening up the bookstore, and Dean _knows_ he’s dating that Gabriel guy even if he won’t say it out loud; nothing at all in his behavior indicated that he could be in any sort of distress.

Then again, Dean hasn’t really dug into _Gabriel_ , despite the fact that he’s been hogging up most of Sam’s time. Shit, Dean hadn’t even thought to look into the guy; dread swirls in his chest and shocks down his arms to his fingertips, and he tries his best to not to give anything away on his face. Those weird, random sensations he gets whenever the shorter dude is around - fuck, his motherfucking sixth sense screaming at him that something wasn’t right.

Dad would be so pissed if he was still alive. _Never ignore your gut instinct_ , he always said.

Cool.

The man quirks a slightly amused smile. “He’s been given something that had no right to be given to him.”

Dean squints, feeling his suspicions swirling around him, ready to be either struck down or lit up. Either way will end in fire. “Will you stop being cryptic and tell me what the fuck he did so I can fix it?”

The man shakes his head, “There’s only one way to fix this, brother. Tell us where Sam is and we will take care of it.”

Dean puffs up his chest, even though he probably looks a little pathetic with his wrists zip tied and his clothes all dirty and rumpled. 

_Look after him._ John Winchester’s last words knock around Dean’s skull.

“No. Tell me what I can do.” 

The man gives Dean a measuring look and then reaches forward to push his shoulder, offsetting his balance and making him land in the chair with a surprised whuff. The man then pulls out his cell phone, turning his back on Dean and taking a few steps away so he can place a call. 

Dean smirks to himself. Rookie mistake, turning your back on your captive. He’s almost insulted that this guy thinks it would be that easy to detain Dean Winchester.

“Boss,” the man says in his pretty cajun drawl, the line of his shoulders tense. “Winchester isn’t-”

Dean’s quiet on his feet as he stands and approaches the man from behind; he can’t do much with his hands restrained but he winds up for a kick to the back of the man’s knees, making him yell out in surprise and fall to his knees on the floor. Furious blue eyes turn on Dean and Dean’s smile fades a little - his plan had gotten as far as kicking the man down. He didn’t… exactly think about what to do next.

Planning ahead was never his strong point.

The man is up on his feet in an instant, grappling Dean back into the chair to try and wrestle him down into it. The chair gets upturned and Dean goes careening to the floor with it, grunting when his shoulder takes the brunt of the fall and pain blossoms through his frame. However, with his knees bent he makes quick work of shifting his arms and rolling away from the man so he can draw his feet up and bring his wrists under them so that his hands are in front of his body. Easy enough. With his balance regained he stands up and doesn’t really have a clue as to how he’ll get the upper hand with his wrists still bound, but damn it, he’s gonna try.

Clearly the man doesn’t expect Dean to be able to do much because he just stands there for a minute, his phone still clutched in his hand, his eyes measuring Dean up. He must not have expected his captive to have so much spunk. Dean feels a stab of pride at this, even though he knows this fight will end one way, and one way only: with his ass getting kicked. 

Won’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last. 

“Tell me what I can do,” Dean demands, with no room to do so.

The man stalks towards him and grabs him by the zip ties, yanking him forward for a headbutt. Dean feels like his skull may have cracked and his knees go weak immediately as he hits the floor, tasting blood, vision blackening.

“Tell me where Sam Winchester is.”

Dean didn’t even know Sam couldn’t be ‘found’. Then again, he hasn’t heard from his brother in a few days… “I don’t know,” Dean finally grits out, honest.

The toe of the man’s shiny shoe prods into Dean’s belly. “Guess we’ll have to jog your memory, then.”

Dean has the errant thought that he forgot to take the garbage out before he closed up shop.


	3. The Righteous Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check end notes for tags related to this chapter.  
>  **\--*--** denotes POV change

The warehouse is dark and silent as a sleek, black car pulls up to the front garage, the headlights turning off well before it parks. The driver gets out and opens the back door, the man exiting the car shrouded in darkness save for the tan trench coat draped over his frame. His blue tie flutters in the wind and a distracted hand pats it down towards his chest to tame it before he starts walking towards the warehouse, an armed grunt opening up the main door for him to enter. 

Polished dress shoes clack along the grimy floor, elegant, tattooed fingers adjusting the cufflinks of his dress shirt. Two men flank him, surly and armed, and when the man turns a corner to enter a decrepit office with a cot propped in the middle of it, he allows oceanic eyes to fall on the occupant of the makeshift bed: the one and only Dean Winchester. 

Excitement flutters in his chest, unbidden.

“Boss,” the soft drawl brings the man’s attention towards the other occupant of the room.

“Thank you, Benny.” The man greets, voice whiskey deep and accented. “You did well in keeping him here.”

“You seriously considering his offer?” Benny asks, a bit incredulous as his gaze flits towards the unconscious, bloodied, dirtied man.

“I do not see why not,” the dark haired man replies. He shrugs out of his trench coat, rings glimmering in the dim light as he hands the garment to the unnamed suited man on his left, leaving him in his black button-down shirt and slacks. “Gabriel made mess of himself, and if we can not get the Winchesters to knock on our door, then we shall take the next best thing. In this case, the better option.” Dark blue eyes rove over Dean's prone figure thoughtfully. An opulent shrug of his shoulders carries the man towards the cot where he takes a seat on the edge, reaching up to brush matted hair away from Dean’s dirty forehead. “After all, he requested to be taken in Sam’s stead.”

Imagine his luck.

Benny’s incredulity fades a little as he reaches up a hand to work his jaw. “He’s a good fighter. With a little training he could be better than me.”

The dark haired man hums thoughtfully, thumbing across the other man’s split lip. “He is righteous man to offer this sacrifice, even if he was playing into our hands.”

“Mouthy,” Benny grumbles a little. 

The dark haired man’s lips twist wryly. “Even better.” His touches get a little more sure of themselves before he cups Dean’s slightly scruffy jaw with his forefinger and thumb, giving it a little shake. The man shouldn’t be asleep - he probably has a concussion. Another soft shake and Dean’s eyes flutter open and the dark haired man feels his breath leave his body in surprise at the stunning green irises that focus on him - finally on _him_ \- and then Dean’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean makes to swat the hand away from his face but his hands are still zip tied; the dark haired man frowns, holding out his left hand towards Benny, right hand still on Dean’s jaw. Benny supplies him with a pocket knife and the man lets go of Dean’s chin to relieve him of his bonds, meeting Dean’s suspicious gaze as the sandy haired man tenderly rubs the indentations in his skin. Benny takes the knife back when offered, stepping off towards the side and out of Dean’s reach.

“Who’re you?” Dean says, his voice rough as his gaze refocuses on the dark haired man.

There’s a small pause before the dark haired man replies, a soft smile spreading on his lips. “You may call me Castiel.”

Dean squints a little, eyes running over Castiel’s face for a few beats before recognition dawns on his features. “Yer the guy…” he fights to find words through his busted lip and spinning head, “fr’m the bar. I seen you.”

Castiel nods, unsurprised. He had known Dean would recognize him, even if Dean had tried so hard to make it not seem obvious that he had been observing the man in turn every time he saw him. “ _Da_ , that was me. I have been watching you for long time.”

So, so long.

Anger furrows Dean’s brows, replacing the confusion as his green eyes turn ablaze. “Why.” He’s too beat up to make too much movement, but Castiel still has the bleakest idea that maybe he should have kept Dean restrained.

“Gabriel Krushnic is my brother,” Castiel explains, “and my… accountant. An exorbitant amount of money was taken from our accounts without a proper receipt or authorization. After some investigation, we learned that he had signed on as private lender for Sam Winchester’s restoration of _Uncle Bobby’s Books_.”

Dean pales slightly, but there’s a flash of recognition in his beautiful eyes, almost as though Castiel is just confirming conclusions Dean had come to on his own.

He’s always known Dean is much more intelligent than he lets on.

Winchesters have to be.

Castiel continues, “Gabriel is smart. Cunning. But he is soft. He knew that I would not authorize the transaction, so he boldly stole from me. He had given your brother one-year grace period to repay the debt… but you see, I do not tend to allow such leniency. It is, of course, no coincidence that I am also having difficulty locating my brother.”

Dean’s eyes dart from Castiel, to Benny, to the other two men in the room. “What’re you, the fuckin’ mafia or s’um?” His concussion is obvious, his Southern drawl more pronounced than normal. He’ll need medical attention.

But Castiel merely smiles serenely, gaze locked on Dean’s once green meets blue. “Yes.”

Dean coughs up a bit of blood in surprise and rolls slightly onto his side, seemingly uncaring of the blood and spit dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the ratty material of the cot. He wheezes, “F’ it’s the m’ney, I c’n pay it back wi… with int’rest.”

“Unfortunately, while money is the obvious issue, the root of the matter is that Sam Winchester took something that belonged to me. So in return,” Castiel gestures idly with his hand before he pulls a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his shirt, reaching out to gently mop up Dean’s mouth, “I will take something from him of greater value.”

Dean spits into the handkerchief and glares daggers at Castiel. “Fine.”

Castiel blinks slowly. Is it really that easy for Dean to give himself up for his brother? Castiel would sooner shoot Gabriel than exchange his life for his safety. Hell, he has before. Camaraderie between his family has always been a necessity, not an instinct. But for all of the observations he had made from a distance, Castiel knows that Dean’s loyalty is absolute, especially when it concerns his brother.

It’s the Winchester way.

“Are you understanding what I am asking of you?” Castiel inquires curiously after a moment of silence. 

Dean tries to shrug as he falls onto his back, gaze watery from pain, surely. “Wht’ever it is, I don’t care. Don’t do anythin’ to Sammy.”

Castiel withdraws his handkerchief, looking down at the clotted blood staining the blue material. He had been planning on recruiting Dean no matter what; the first time he saw the older Winchester, over a year ago, Castiel had seen the _fire_ inside him, felt the grandest pull towards him, and had decided then and there in the crowded Quincy Market that he would bring the man in under any means possible. Gabriel falling into Sam’s orbit had been unplanned but a nice nudge in the right direction, the situation easily fitting itself into Castiel’s hand. 

Dean readily agreeing had definitely not been a thought in Castiel’s mind.

Benny must have really hit his head hard. 

It is a matter of honest consent at this time, but… Castiel will not let this opportunity slip away.

Standing up, Castiel idly hands the bloodied handkerchief to the same man currently holding his trench coat. “As of this moment, Dean Winchester, you are mine.”

Dean coughs a little and tries to sit up, then seems to think better of it as he falls back. “An’ what does that en… tail, ‘xactly?”

Castiel lets his gaze roam over Dean’s body. “Merely answer me when I call. You may go about your normal life. In return, I will keep my men far, far away from Sam Winchester.” He holds his arms slightly behind him, the man holding his coat seeing the cue to start helping Castiel into the sleeves. Once the trench coat is on Castiel’s frame he straightens out the material, speaking casually. “It is at your discretion whether or not you inform your brother of our… deal.”

Dean tries to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze.

“Benny, please ensure that Mr. Winchester is taken to hospital.”

Benny nods, and Castiel catches sight of Dean rolling his eyes, the action making Castiel smirk to himself with pleasure. Not all of the fight had been beaten out of him. Admirable.

“Until next time, Dean.” Castiel bids before leaving the cramped, dim office.

Dean shouldn’t have agreed to such… loose terms. Castiel straightens his tie as he walks, dark eyes shrouded with malice and excitement. Gabriel had stumbled across the younger Winchester by chance, and Castiel is never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He is going to seize this opportunity at any cost.

Dean Winchester is finally his.

\--*--

The moment Sam enters the hospital room, Dean attempts to set him on fire with his gaze. Sam tries to shrink his huge frame down a bit as he closes the door behind him and moves to stand at the foot of Dean’s bed (outside of the danger zone), his hands wringing together idly. The phone call Dean had interrupted his day with had only consisted of a few choice words (“Sam, get your dumb ass to the hospital right fucking _now_ ”) and while Sam doesn’t seem to know the exact reason why Dean is currently hospitalized with a black eye and a concussion and a bruised rib, he’s sure to have a feeling that he’s going to be taking the blame somehow or another.

Dean knows Sam.

It takes a few minutes for Dean to calm himself down enough to talk. Sam knows all of his brother’s tells; when Dean is pissed he feels it with his whole body, sometimes he can’t even _talk_ through it, and the fact that he hasn’t said anything yet surely lets Sam know that something is deeply wrong. 

There is the issue with how much Dean should reveal, though. Having Sam know that he got Dean into a predicament isn’t going to end well for either of them; Sam would kill himself with grief and regret for making such a deal, knowing that it lead Dean to this exact moment in time, banged up and pissy. Adding more stress to the situation isn’t going to help Dean at all, even though it’s not like things could get any worse.

“Got mugged.” Dean finally gruffs out, turning his head to look out of the window. He has to redirect his anger away from Sam.

Confusion and belated panic swirl in Sam’s eyes, and those words must be enough to give him a head rush. Sam can be a sissy like that. He finally finds it within him to move to take the seat next to Dean’s bed, trying to process the information. Dean can feel Sam examining his features with those sharp eyes of his - he’s trying to assess if Dean is telling the truth, or covering something up. This early on in the game; if Sam sees any holes in Dean’s façade, there’s no hope for Dean to keep his brother out of it. But they’ve been here for so long, and Dean has literally never been mugged in his entire life, so there’s no doubt that the cogs and wheels are turning very, very carefully inside Sam’s head.

More importantly, they're both well aware of the fact Dean is more than capable of defending himself. 

“Are you ok?” Sam finally asks.

“Do I _look_ ok-” Dean winces and loses his voice momentarily. Even like this, injured and unable to move too much, he knows Sam is still terrified of his angry brother, no matter how suspicious the events are that lead up to his hospitalization. Hopefully he can swing things around so that fear turns into concern - and more of the brotherly variety, less of the suspicious kind. “Snuck up on me.”

Sam leans back in his chair a bit, regarding Dean quietly. After a few moments, his voice softens and some of the tension leaves his body. “Did you file a police report?” 

“No point,” Dean shrugs. “Didn’t see ‘em, got knocked out.”

“Did they take anything important?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, already put everything in my car and was heading back to the shop to lock up. Didn’t have anything to take, they got mad, kicked the hell outta me, left.”

Sam falls quiet again, clearly trying to process. It’s a simple enough story, no way to poke holes in it, really; Dean very frequently loads up his car and puts all his valuables away before turning back to make a final lock up of the shop. And even if he would have had his wallet on him in this scenario, he only carries a small amount of cash and leaves his debit card safely at home. 

After five minutes of silence Dean scowls and reaches out with his good hand to flick Sam’s forearm as hard as he can. Sam winces at the sharp sensation. After a few moments of silence Dean finally drops his gaze down into his lap. This is not ok. He’s not ok. Not at all. He just took the beating of his life for a mistake his brother made- and quite honestly, he would do it all over again if he had to. There isn’t a thing on this Earth that Dean wouldn’t do for Sam. It’s practically part of his DNA. So, despite all of the shit hanging over his head, and despite having to lie straight to Sam’s face about it, Dean says, “M’ good.”

Sam lets out a soft sigh. He, smartly, doesn’t believe Dean - at least about how he’s doing, not necessarily the circumstance - but he also knows better than to battle against Dean’s deflection. “Good.”

Another few moments of silence, and then Sam mutters something about using the bathroom before he leaves the room, likely to give Dean a couple minutes to himself. When he returns Dean is staring out the open window at the blue, blue sky, some seagulls squawking and flying around in the distance. His gaze turns to Sam before it slides to the side, almost guiltily, nearly shamefully, and Sam sinks into the chair again, reaching out for Dean’s uninjured hand.

“Dean,” Sam says softly. He’s not blind. He can read Dean better than any book he’s ever stuck his nose into. He probably already doesn’t buy the story, Dean realizes, and even if he did, it wouldn’t take long for him to talk himself around it with that smart brain of his.

Dean closes his eyes slowly and lets out a soft sigh, before he turns his hand over so he can wrap his fingers around Sam’s huge palm, relishing in the rare physical contact with his brother. “S’fine, Sammy. Everything’s gonna be ok.”

Sam nods, looking down at their joined hands, clearly not fully believing Dean’s words but accepting them, anyway. Dutiful little brother, never asking too many questions. Even if Dean can’t tell Sam everything, Dean selfishly needs some sort of comfort from him.

He knows Dean is definitely hiding something from him, but Sam also knows better than to press.

“How many chicks do you think will offer to play nurse for me?” Dean asks suddenly.

A smile breaks out on Sam’s face despite the worry creasing his brow. “At least four.”

Dean’s lips quirk, “Awesome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _dubious consent;_ dean agreeing to something while concussed.  
>  _slow burn;_ in relation to both the plot and the pairing.


	4. Dmitri Krushnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder: slow burn ;)  
> no additional warnings for this chapter.  
> i know you're thirsty-- the word count only increases from here!

Life goes on at a relatively normal pace for the following month. Dean gets healed up and the extended summer hours are definitely bringing in the extra cash; even though Castiel had said that he wasn’t interested in money, Dean is still saving every penny he doesn’t need to spend, putting it in an account that he can, hopefully, convince Castiel to withdraw from once it’s full. But Dean hasn’t even heard from Castiel - he doesn’t see him around the bar, he doesn’t even see any of his goons hanging around.

It’s unnerving.

Sam hasn’t asked any further details about the night Dean got his ass kicked, and Dean hasn’t offered any up, either. Dean is going to keep this as buttoned up as possible to avoid worrying Sam. Even though it’s the kid’s fault in the first place, Dean has always shouldered the responsibility of looking after his little brother and taking care of whatever trouble he got into. It’s his brotherly duty. And if Castiel was willing to not pursue the loan in exchange for asking Dean for favors occasionally, Dean figures it won’t be so bad.

Then again, nothing ever comes across as ‘easy’ for the Winchesters.

Four o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, a month and a half after that fateful night, Dean doesn’t glance up when the door chimes to signal a customer, instead occupied by wiping up some spilled coffee grounds. There are a few people seated at the cafe tables enjoying their sandwiches and coffee, but a small hush falls over the lobby, causing Dean to finally glance up.

Castiel is striding towards the pastry counter casually, pulling a pair of sunglasses off of his features and tucking them into a deep pocket in his trench coat. Dean’s mouth goes a little dry and panic flares up inside of him - he now knows why the people in this city recognize Castiel - and it’s quite unsettling when a few people actually pick up their things and leave by the time Castiel comes to a stop at the counter.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets, his voice deep as the gravel Dean ate the night they met.

Dean doesn’t hide his scowl as he tosses the dish towel in his hand over his shoulder, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that normally deters assholes from provoking him too much. “Whaddya want?”

Castiel’s eyes flick down to the pastry case, unaffected. “A cheese danish, please.”

Dean squints, trying to decide if Castiel is being serious or pulling his leg. Castiel returns his steady gaze towards Dean and doesn’t even blink - it spurs Dean into motion, squirting sanitizer into his hands and wiping them dry before he grabs a clean plate and the tongs, opening the back of the case to plate the pastry and set it on top of the glass. Castiel delays in grabbing the plate, instead reaching into another coat pocket to retrieve his wallet, tattooed and bejeweled fingers plucking out a few ones. 

“How is business?” Castiel asks as he sets the money down on the counter. Dean reads _L I E S_ over the span of his left four fingers.

Dean stares at the money for a moment, then looks up at Castiel, then looks back down at the money. Slowly, like a frightened deer taking a treat, Dean collects the money off of the counter and opens the cash register. “...Good.”

Castiel nods. “Good. Your shop is lovely.”

Dean sets the change down on the counter, sliding it towards Castiel’s side of the wood. Castiel scoops up the change and deposits it into the tip jar along with a few more bills, before folding his wallet up and putting it away. Dean takes a moment to examine the man; when they’d first met Dean’s vision hadn’t been great, and the times before that Dean hasn’t been close enough to really study him. Still tanned, tattooed, and stubbled, but up close Dean can feel the weight of those intense blues, can see the gentle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Castiel is, decidedly, an attractive older man, but Dean still thinks he’s a huge ass, so he diverts his attention by stepping away and pulling the towel off his shoulder to start wiping up the rest of the coffee grounds on the counter by the espresso machine. 

He hates that in this moment, Castiel just seems like a regular dude buying a pastry.

“Small talk must not be your forté,” Castiel muses alongside the sound of the plate clinking slightly as he picks it up off of the case.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to say,” Dean replies gruffly. “You’re the one who’s s’posed to tell me what to do.”

“While enlisting you as my _shestyorka_ is appealing,” Castiel says, “I believe that type of work is beneath you.”

“Anything to do with the _mob_ is beneath me,” Dean says with heat, turning around to pin Castiel with his glare. He has no idea what a _shestyorka_ is, and he’s not inclined to find out. “D’ya actually have something to say to me here, or can I get back to work?”

Castiel neatly sets the plate on the counter and grabs a napkin from the holder to rest his danish on. “Please meet me for dinner tonight at _Anthem_. Nine o’clock.”

Dean doesn’t hold his eye roll. “Alright, your majesty.”

Castiel quirks an amused smirk and Dean hates how good the man looks with that expression. “ _Proshchay_ , Dean.” 

“Whatever,” Dean replies to Castiel’s back as he leaves. Damn, that accent.

Five minutes after Castiel leaves some customers cautiously enter the store, glancing around. Dean fixes on his fakest, best customer service smile, greeting them happily.

He won’t allow Castiel to put a wet blanket on him, or his business.

\--

Dean doesn’t bother going home and changing before meeting Castiel for dinner. Dressed in faded jeans, a black vneck and a red flannel, he approaches the restaurant not giving a single damn about any of the odd looks that get thrown his way. His black shirt has flour fingerprints and smudges on it, there’s a hole burnt into the hem of his flannel, and there’s the start of a rip in the knee of his jeans. There are people sitting outside and Dean doesn’t see Castiel among them so he moves towards the door, opening it up and flashing a courteous smile at the hostess and pretending like his gut isn’t trying to leak out of his bellybutton.

“Hey there-”

“Mr. Winchester?” The hostess inquires politely with a smile.

“...Yeah,” Dean loses a bit of his bravado. 

“This way,” she says, turning around and leading Dean further into the restaurant. 

Castiel is seated at a table next to the far wall, a single candle lit in the center of the table. He looks up when the hostess drops Dean off, gesturing with his hand and offering the tiniest of smiles. “Hello, Dean.” The flickering warm light causes shadows to dance across his sharp features and damn it, Dean hates him.

Dean doesn’t want to sit. He wants to stand here, say a few choice (angry) things, and then leave Castiel in the dust. But thinking about Sam’s safety has Dean tamping down his aggressive behavior, his jaw clenching as he takes the seat opposite of Castiel instead of choosing a chair adjacent to the man. “Make it quick.”

Castiel arches a brow, lifting a hand and snapping his fingers. A waitress appears with two menus, placing one into Castiel’s waiting hand, and then sliding the other towards Dean on the table before disappearing. 

“Are you not hungry?”

Dean might pop a blood vessel. “I don’t want to eat with you.”

“Dean,” Castiel lets out a soft sigh, setting his menu down on the table and leaning forward a bit to clasp his hands on the surface. “I would like to specify your terms.”

Eyeing Castiel with scrutiny, Dean takes a moment to look him over. Castiel is wearing a white button-down shirt, the top three buttons undone to reveal tanned skin and what looks like the edges of a tattoo of Mother Mary, and above his collarbones is inked with cirrus clouds that wisp up his neck towards his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows to expose toned forearms, Dean’s eyes roving over the various tattoos littering the flesh. A lot of symbols he doesn’t recognize, words in Cyrillic that he can’t translate, and smatterings of charred, torn feathers. On each finger of Castiel’s right hand is a letter spelling the word _P U R E_ \- silver rings and bracelets add a pleasant contrast to the darkness of his tattoos and the bronze of his skin, and it takes Dean a moment to finally look back up at Castiel’s face.

“Then specify,” Dean says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest tightly.

Instead of answering, Castiel pursues the menu idly. “Will I be eating alone?”

“Do you ever give straight answers?” Dean asks, irritation lacing his voice and tightening up his frame. 

Blue eyes glance up at Dean and for a second, Dean is pinned by the intensity of them. Castiel holds eye contact like a physical vice grip and Dean feels his throat close up a little in reply. After a few moments of tense silence, Castiel sets the menu down and snaps his fingers again. The waitress reappears and Castiel is still looking at Dean as he orders, “A white russian, please.”

When nothing else is said, the woman sends a glance at Dean - who barely returns it, still stuck under Castiel’s eyes - and then she gathers their menus.

“A whiskey for my friend,” Castiel adds just as the waitress starts to turn away.

“Yes, sir,” she replies before darting off towards the bar. 

Finally, Castiel allows his gaze to slide away from Dean, the flame of the candle reflecting in the depths of the ocean as he speaks. “Do you know anything about the mafia, Dean?”

“I know I shouldn’t be involved in it,” Dean says contritely. His arms cross over his chest, doing his best to close off his body language to the other man. Dean wears his heart and emotions on his sleeve and he wants Castiel to know that he doesn’t like the situation, but he also doesn’t want Castiel to know _everything_ that passes through his mind during this meeting. 

“True,” Castiel says with a wry smile. 

“You the boss?” Dean asks, eyes roving over Castiel’s frame curiously. Castiel looks like he has a runner’s body, but every time he shifts the muscles in his forearms move and his sleeves bunch up a little at the biceps and lets Dean know that the man can definitely hold his own, or better, in a fight. 

“No,” Castiel says, his wry smile spreading a bit. “But I am his little brother.”

“How come you’re makin’ all the decisions, then?” Dean’s gaze narrows.

“I will repeat my question: Do you know anything about the mafia?” Castiel asks, patient as a saint.

Obviously Castiel wants a serious answer to his question, so Dean takes a moment to think. Basically everything he knows is from dramatic, action-packed movies and television shows, and he’s not sure if that’s an accurate representation of the mafia. Then again: the material needed to come from somewhere, so Dean figures it’s about as accurate as it can be without the mafia themselves directing the shows.

“You’re a bunch of armed bullies,” Dean finally says. “Extortion, drugs. Murder, probably.”

Castiel nods sagely, and then spreads his hands in a placating gesture, his smile belying his words. “The bad guys, yes?”

Dean nods slowly. “...Yes.”

The waitress brings their drinks back, the glasses clinking on the table. Dean doesn’t move to take his, but Castiel takes his own, lifting it up and examining it. Elbow on the table, long, elegant fingers holding the glass, Castiel looks like a Renaissance painting. “Did you know that this drink is not actually from Russia?”

Dean’s mind goes blank. “What?”

“This drink,” Castiel gestures with it, and then takes a sip before setting the glass down, the ice tinkling softly. “The white russian is not Russian in origin. Merely, vodka is the main ingredient, and so our friends across the border thought it appropriate to call it after us.”

Unsure as to why he’s getting a history lesson on a fucking drink, Dean slouches a bit in his chair, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Is it offensive or something?”

Castiel’s eyes sharply look towards Dean. “Just because vodka is put into the equation, does that mean that it should be related to Russia?”

Dean frowns. “I- I guess not. Seems to perpetuate the stereotype that Russians love vodka.”

Castiel nods, apparently pleased with Dean’s response. He leans forward slightly in his seat, both elbows on the table, gaze once again locking Dean down. “So, do you think that because someone is a member of the mafia, that they should be bad guy?”

Now Dean feels lost. “Isn’t that, like, the whole point of the mafia?”

A thoughtful look crosses Castiel’s face. “What if, Dean, I were a white russian?”

Exhaling slowly, Dean tries to wrap his mind around what Castiel is trying to say. “Are you- do you mean… that you are not a stereotypical mafia?” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “You gotta be direct with me, man.”

“My brother,” Castiel leans back in his seat, fingers resting on the table to frame his drink, “is very, very bad man. He has made many enemies and he has hurt innocent people. For long I have been in his shadow and for _too_ long I have had to… accompany him.” Castiel frowns slightly. “He has done something unforgivable, and I must stop him.”

“So it’s a coup,” Dean says, surprised. Then, he leans forward and points an accusing finger at Castiel. “That fucking _Benny_ guy beat the snot outta me and you’re tryna tell me you’re the _good_ guys?”

Castiel sends Dean a wan smile. “You were told not to resist.”

Dean throws his hands up in frustration. “Jesus.” He picks up his whiskey and knocks it back in one swallow, happy Castiel is picking up the bill because the liquid slides so smooth down his throat it’s got to be top shelf. Anyway, he’s not buying it. This guy may not be the embodiment of evil, but he’s not exactly the poster child for good deeds, either. He takes a moment to collect himself, and then scoots his chair forward, voice lowering a bit. “I don’t understand what you want me to do.”

“I need you to be _my_ white russian,” Castiel says. 

Finally starting to catch on, Dean gives Castiel a dead look.

“I must make Lucifer think that you are new recruit. He has left most operations in my control and soon he will be wondering why his tasks are not being completed. You will be my… protector.”

“Is this going to end up with me getting my ass kicked again?” Dean asks, rubbing his temples idly.

“If we play our cards right, you should be safe.” Castiel says. After a moment, his voice lowers but increases in intensity. “You owe me a great debt, Dean Winchester.”

Dean glares hotly. As if Castiel needs to _remind_ Dean why he’s sitting in a restaurant with a member of the Russian mafia. And, just as Dean decided a few weeks ago, Sam’s problem is his problem, and he’ll do anything he can to rectify it. Tensing his jaw, Dean squares up his shoulders. “Tell me what I gotta do.” He points again at Castiel, “I don’t fucking like this, or you, but I’m gonna do it. For Sammy.”

“You do not have to like me, Dean,” Castiel concedes, picking up his drink for another sip, eyes gazing at Dean from above the rim of the glass. “Merely do as I say.”

“Fine,” Dean says with venom. He’s starting to get antsy. “Are we good?”

“Yes,” that infuriatingly serene smile passes over Castiel’s lips, “we are ‘good’. Ah-” he holds up his finger and shifts in his seat to pull his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and sliding it over towards Dean’s side of the table. “Your number, please.”

Dean doesn’t pick the phone up, choosing to tap his number into Castiel’s contacts where it lay and putting a middle finger emoji at the end of his name before saving and exiting, sliding the device back towards Castiel’s side of the table. “There.”

“ _Spasibo_ ,” Castiel says primly.

Not bothering to say anything else, Dean stands and stalks out of the restaurant. A few people cast him curious glances and he ignores them all, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he starts walking towards where his car is parked. After a few paces, he feels his knees go a little weak as the weight of the situation starts to settle in. Great. He just became a member of the mafia. But- the good mafia? Castiel had basically said that he hasn’t been completing any assignments which means that he hasn’t been committing any crimes. Technically. Maybe. 

Except for extortion, assault and kidnapping, Dean muses cynically. _Fucking blackmailer_.

He drives home in silence, choosing to listen to the purr of his beauty’s engine rather than music. It’s about a twenty minute drive and when he gets home he’s quiet when he enters, knowing Sam is probably already asleep. He walks up the stairs of their townhouse as softly as possible, stopping by Sam’s bedroom to crack the door open a fraction so he can peer inside. All he can see is a lump under the covers but soft snores float over towards him and despite the anxiety-inducing evening he just had, knowing that his baby brother is safe is all Dean needs to keep going. Sam may have had a bad lapse in judgment, but Dean also knows that Sam has a bleeding fucking heart and he’s been so lonely for so long - he had probably become enamored with Gabriel and couldn’t see properly through his rose-colored glasses. An easy mistake.

A grave mistake, really, but Dean knows his brother, and that’s why he can’t be mad at him for the ensuing events.

Even if Dean is now a part of the fucking mafia. A white russian… Castiel’s way of speaking is so strange. And not just because of his accent, either. Dean is having a hard time figuring out if Castiel really _is_ a good guy or if this is some elaborate scheme to recruit fresh blood into his little gang.

Shutting Sam’s door softly Dean walks towards his bedroom, frowning when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Pulling it out as he enters his room, his irritation flares all over again. 

**UNKNOWN NUMBER:** Meet me at this address, 8AM tomorrow.

Dean doesn’t reply, doesn’t even save the number. He tosses his phone onto his bed and runs all ten fingers through his hair, lacing them at the base of his neck and staring out of his window with his eyes narrowed in a glare, anxiety re-knotting itself in his gut. 

He’s part of the fucking mafia.

Awesome.

\--

Dean shows up to the gun range just before eight the next morning. He wonders if Castiel chose such an early time because he cares about the fact that Dean has to be at the cafe at eleven, or if perhaps Castiel is one of those ‘early risers’ that believes in starting their day at six every morning. Either way, Dean can appreciate that his new ‘mafia job’ isn’t going to interfere with his regular day job.

Ain’t that a thought.

Upon entering the gun range Benny greets Dean at the front desk. He’s wearing another smart designer suit, a poor boy cap on his head, and he flashes Dean a wry smile.

“Mornin’, brother.”

Dean waves an idle hand. “Whatever. I’m guessin’ you wanna see if I can shoot?”

Benny’s smile turns a little sharp. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

Dean sends Benny a flat look, but says nothing in reply. He already knows his mouth gets him into trouble with this guy and frankly, Dean doesn’t feel like showing up to the cafe later with a shiner.

Benny turns and starts walking down the hallway. Despite the circumstances of being here, Dean is actually feeling pretty good about this. Growing up in Texas, he and Sam had both learned gun handling at very young ages. Coupled with visiting shooting ranges on their own as well as hunting for their own food whenever their dad was feeling up to ‘father son time’, Dean is pretty proficient with a weapon. 

The good ol’ Winchester Way.

Trying to stay casual, Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his coat as he follows a few paces behind Benny.

“Where’s Cas?” he asks.

Benny sends Dean a curious look over his shoulder, probably at the nickname, and then turns into an open doorway. “He’s got business today. Just me an’ you, cher.”

Dean sends Benny a sarcastic smile, “Our first real date. I feel so romanced.”

Benny flicks on the light to reveal a standard shooting range. To the right is the locked arsenal, and straight ahead the whole range stretches back about fifty yards. Stepping up to one of the stalls Benny clicks a button and the target clip comes zooming forward, and then he pulls down one of the paper targets from the roll provided. As he clips it in, he asks casually, “Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

Dean resists an eye roll as he walks over to the gun locker. He decides to play it off, shrugging. “I think I know a thing or two.”

Once Benny zooms the target back into its spot he turns to join Dean at the cabinet, pulling a key out of his pocket to unlock it and swing the doors open. Dean stops a whistle; this must not be an ordinary shooting range, because the heat that’s packed into this locker can’t _all_ be available to civilians. He eyes the standard issue glocks and pistols, lets his gaze rove over the shotguns, and then feels a slight twist of excited anticipation he can’t quite explain at the military grade rifles.

It’s been too long.

“Take your pick and I’ll show you the ropes,” Benny says, gesturing with his hand.

This time, Dean can’t help the quirk of his lips. He reaches out for a Beretta, feeling the weight of it in his hand like an old friend. He scans the lower shelf for the correct ammo, grabbing the box and taking it and the gun back towards the counter. Benny follows curiously, and Dean sets both the gun and the box down on the counter before releasing a real, pleased grin. 

Practiced hands unload the clip and set it down, the speed, precision and accuracy unmistakeable. He pulls apart the gun piece by piece to check everything and then reassembles it easily, loading the bullets in the clip one by one with deft fingers, and then clicks the clip into place, lifting his hands to take aim as he flips off the safety. He fires fifteen rounds without so much as a twitch of the eye and then unloads the empty clip, setting it and the gun down and then taking a step back, exhaling slowly.

Benny stares at Dean, his jaw slightly slack and his eyes wide. It takes a few moments for him to react - he lifts a blind hand to fumble around for the zoom button, bringing the target careening forward. Dean feels a smug sense of satisfaction - fourteen bullet holes in the head, and he sees Benny’s gaze lower out of the corner of his eye to take in the single bullet hole in the groin. 

“How did I do?” Dean asks, sounding all sorts of innocent and pleased.

“You coulda just said you knew how to shoot,” Benny grumbles. “Show off.”

Dean shrugs a little. “I gotta have _some_ fun.”

“You shoot any other guns like that?” Benny asks, turning his gaze towards the armory. 

“All of ‘em,” Dean says. “Grew up in Texas. Dad was a hard ass. Not a single thing I can’t shoot - ain’t a target I can’t hit.” Dean turns his gaze back towards the locker as well. “Could learn up on those military rifles.”

Benny sends Dean a measuring look. “Starting from now on I’ll be training you up, brother. Gonna learn some combat skills to go along with that fancy gun slingin’.”

“Combat skills?” Dean arches a brow, caught a little off guard. “What, like Rambo?”

“More like John Wick,” Benny says with a sharp smile. Dean swears the guy has fangs for a split second, but the illusion is ruined when Benny gestures for Dean to follow him. “This is all just precautionary. Hopefully you won’t be in a situation where you need to use these… skills, but the boss is especially interested in the guarantee of your safety, in case you get into any predicaments.”

“Predicaments,” Dean repeats, following Benny out of the shooting range. “Like if I get brought in by what’s-his-face, right?”

“Lucifer,” Benny supplies the name. “And yes. He likely isn’t gonna treat you too nice, brother. We’ll school you up on how to take a beating.”

“Awesome,” Dean grumbles under his breath. “Always wanted to be a professional punching bag for a guy named after the devil.”

They exit the building and there’s a black sedan parked out front that hadn’t been there when Dean arrived, the windows all tinted. Benny gestures for Dean to get into the back seat before he gets behind the wheel; Dean rolls his eyes and opens the back door, sliding into the car, blinking in surprise when he sees Castiel sitting next to him.

“Hello, Dean.”

“You missed the show,” Dean says, smug. He reaches forward over the seat to clap Benny on the shoulder “Ain’t that right.”

Castiel arches a brow, turning his attention to Benny. He seems just as surprised at Dean’s change on demeanor as Benny. “All went well?”

“Nothin’ to worry about for him,” Benny says, his voice rough around the edges, but Dean can see his pleased expression in the rear view mirror. 

“I knew you would be well worth it,” Castiel says.

Dean returns his attention towards the other man, taking in his appearance. Always the same accountant getup; slacks, button-down, tie. Ugly trench coat. He’s wearing a lightweight scarf with some weird symbols embroidered into it. Castiel’s eyes seem a bit brighter today, his hair a little messier, and Dean can’t help but give him a wolfish smile as he pieces things together. “Did you have a good night, buddy?”

Castiel sends Dean a slightly confused look, his head tilting. “Pardon?”

“Looks like you got lucky,” Dean supplies. Thinking about English being Castiel’s second language, it makes the joke lose its heat, but he clarifies anyway, “Like you got laid.”

Now Castiel sends Dean a real frown. “I did not.” And he says it so damn honestly that Dean can’t help but laugh in surprise, making Castiel’s brow furrow even further. 

“Sorry- I mean. Uh. That sucks I guess.” Dean clears his throat and settles back in his seat as Benny pulls away from the building and out into traffic. 

Castiel clearly can’t comprehend why Dean would be interested in such a thing, let alone joke about it, but he seems to let it slide as he relaxes into his seat and turns his gaze out of the window. “Your disposition towards me seems to have changed for the better.”

Dean lifts a brow. He hadn’t really thought about it, but today he didn’t greet Castiel all huffy and rude. He’d been on the adrenaline high of shooting a gun and proving his worth - and why should he care about that, anyway? This is the mafia. He’s being roped into doing work that he otherwise would run in the opposite direction of. Castiel is still a huge asshole, and Dean still doesn’t like him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he needs to treat the guy like shit all of the time. For however long he’s stuck with him, Dean is starting to realize that his attitude is going to greatly affect how things go. So, Dean shrugs and glances out of the window, closing off some of his body language. 

“Yeah, well. Woke up on the right side of the bed today.”

“The right side of the bed includes a gun in your hand?” Castiel asks smoothly.

Dean turns his gaze back towards the other man, whose cerulean eyes are regarding him with unbidden curiosity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You are man of vices,” Castiel observes. “Alcohol, food, women. It comes as no surprise to me that ‘blowing off steam’,” fucking _air quotes_ , “has improved your mood.”

Dean squints a little. “I don’t know if I like you sayin’ that about me.”

Castiel raises both brows. “Is it offensive to suggest that a gun in your hand suits you?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dean petulantly looks out of the window. “Yeah.” He thinks of his father teaching him how to turn off the safety at eight years old and represses a shiver.

“It does not make you any sort of bad, Dean,” Castiel replies, almost placatingly. “You seem to still be under the impression that we are the bad guys, doing bad deeds.”

“Yeah, well I’m still gonna need some convincing in order to believe that you guys are as Robin Hood-y as you come off.”

“And that is why you are accompanying us to this morning’s appointment,” Castiel says easily. “To give you this proof you seek.”

That catches Dean’s interest. “Where we goin’?” 

“To a client’s house,” Castiel says. 

Dean rubs his palms over his thighs idly, unsure of what to make of the situation. Castiel is already bringing him around to a client, when he doesn’t know jack-all of what he’s doing? Dean hasn’t even really learned anything noteworthy. Castiel is either stupid, or trusts Dean implicitly.

Both are terrible thoughts.

The drive takes about twenty minutes, and when they pull up in a suburban neighborhood, Dean can’t help but look around curiously. Everything looks totally normal here. Castiel and Benny get out of the car, prompting Dean into motion as well, climbing out of the car and shutting the door behind him as he glances around. The lawns are all manicured, cars clean in the driveway - but… not a person in sight. Castiel and Benny start walking up towards the house the car is parked in front of, Dean jogging slightly to catch up. It’s a beautiful two-story colonial home with a wide front porch and a swing, the welcome mat all sorts of warm and cheerful beneath their feet as Benny raises his hand to knock on the screen door.

The woman who opens up the door is cautious, peering out with just her eyes before seeming to recognize the men. A bit of relief filters over her expression as she opens the door wider; she’s middle-aged, her graying blonde hair pulled up in an elegant chignon, pearls on her neck, and an apron wrapped around her thin frame. 

“Mr. Krushnic,” she greets, reaching forward to push open the screen door. “Benny. Please come in.” Her gaze travels over towards Dean, who offers a slightly awkward smile and a little wave.

“Mrs. Brown, this is Dean,” Castiel introduces him with a small gesture. “We are sorry to impose.”

Mrs. Brown shakes her head, allowing the men into the foyer of her home with a small smile. “You are never a bother, Mr. Krushnic. Did you get the cookies I sent you?”

The men file into the entryway, Dean taking in the upper-middle class home with interest. At the mention of cookies, though, his attention goes back towards Castiel, who offers a surprisingly sheepish smile. 

Interesting.

“ _Da_ \- they were delicious. I will have to get the recipe from you sometime.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Brown waves a hand. “I’ll just keep baking them for you, ok?”

Castiel nods, “I would appreciate that greatly.” He reaches out to take Mrs. Brown’s hands in his own, “We are here to check in on your husband. Have you heard anything?”

Mrs. Brown’s smile falters slightly, her bony fingers gripping Castiel’s tightly. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“We are working tirelessly to find him,” Castiel says, his voice filled with honesty and conviction. Dean feels a little thrown off by the exchange. “Keep him in your prayers.”

Mrs. Brown brings Castiel’s hands up to her mouth so she can kiss his rings gently. “I pray to you before I pray to any God, Mr. Krushnic. I know you will bring my Gregory back to me.”

Castiel moves a hand to gently cup Mrs. Brown’s face, bringing her forehead to his own. Both of them close their eyes and share a peaceful moment, and then Mrs. Brown pulls away with a small sniffle, reaching up to unnecessarily fix her perfect hair. 

“You boys hungry? I’ve got croissants in the oven almost ready to come out,” she asks. 

“Only if there is enough to share,” Castiel replies kindly. 

Mrs. Brown waves a hand. “Feeding you is the least of my concerns. You’re much too thin nowadays, Dmitri.”

Castiel smiles with his gums and a few nose wrinkles. “You are good for my self-image.”

Mrs. Brown pats Benny’s stomach playfully, “Maybe you should have fruit instead of a croissant.”

Benny has the audacity to blush and grumble a bit. “That ain’t fair, ma chère…”

“And you,” Mrs. Brown turns her attention to Dean, who is still trying to wrap his mind around the scene unfolding in front of him. “Dean? Close your mouth, you’ll attract flies.” But her eyes are shining with warmth and affection as she turns around, presumably to head towards the kitchen where, sure enough, the fresh scent of baking croissants is filtering through.

Before Castiel can walk away, Dean reaches out to catch his wrist to stop him, pulling him close so he can speak lowly. Sparks flare at the skin contact and Dean resolutely ignores it. “ _Dmitri_?”

Castiel sends Dean a small smile. “It sells ‘mafia’ image.”

Dean squints and lets go of his wrist. “Why you tryna sell an image at all?” 

“Because,” Castiel says patiently, “people like Mrs. Brown need to believe that someone is fighting for them. Someone who can hunt the demons of the night and bring justice.”

“This you tryna prove to me that you ain’t the bad guys?” Dean asks, slightly incredulous. 

“ _Imenno_ ,” Castiel nods. “Yes.”

Squinting, Dean finally lets go of Castiel’s wrist. “I ain’t sold just yet.”

Castiel sends Dean a serene smile, “I am sure one of Mrs. Brown’s pastries will have you seeing things my way.” He walks away with Benny, then, leaving Dean in the foyer.

Reaching up to run his fingers through his hair, Dean lets out a little sigh as he glances around. Mrs. Brown’s place looks fairly average for the neighborhood; nice furniture, not a television in sight, antique coffee table. He walks over to the fireplace mantle where some pictures are displayed and sees who must be Gregory Brown, balding and smiling, one arm thrown around his wife and the other around a girl who looks like their daughter. Next to the photo is what looks like a potpourri bag, which he picks up and sniffs. The scent is long gone, but the fabric is soft. Scratching his cheek idly, Dean glances at a few other photos, until Mrs. Browns’ voice behind him startles him into turning around. 

“He’s been gone for two months,” Mrs. Brown explains, wiping her hands on her apron as her eyes look past Dean towards the photo. “The cops think he’s dead. But I know better. Gregory made a wrong investment a couple of years ago and everything went belly up. He had been worried that someone was going to come after him to collect. I didn’t believe him at first… But then I woke up one day, and he was gone. Not a trace left behind.” She smooths her apron down and levels her gaze with Dean’s. “I contacted Dmitri because I’ve heard about the good he’s done for people like us. I know he will find my husband and bring him back to me.”

Unsure of what to say - Dean is still trying to wrap his head around Castiel being a _good guy_ \- he offers a slightly crooked smile. “We’ll do our best, ma’am.”

Mrs. Brown sends Dean a contemplative look, as if _she’s_ measuring _him_ up. He feels a little squirmy under her gaze, but stays straight-backed and still, not allowing his body language to give away the fact that he doesn’t really feel like he belongs here. She wrings her apron idly in her hands, and then finally gives Dean a tentative smile. “It’s nice to see a new face. Come, let’s eat.”

She turns around and Dean follows her into the quaint dining room, a china cabinet on one wall, a beautiful bay window opposite. The oak table situated in the center of the room is beautiful but lonely with only two of the eight seats occupied; Castiel and Benny are seated next to one another and Dean sits opposite of them, taking in the doilies and simple dishware. The centerpiece is fresh flowers and what look like herbs, arranged prettily in a ceramic vase. Mrs. Brown disappears into the kitchen and then brings out a plate stacked with steaming croissants and a bowl of fresh fruit before leaving again - Castiel uses the provided tongs and puts two croissants on his plate, and then pushes the bowl of fruit towards Benny wordlessly. Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth to hide his smile at Castiel’s dry teasing. 

Mrs. Brown returns with a tray arranged with a teapot and four teacups, setting it down on the table. She quietly fills all four cups and passes them out, points out the milk and the sugar, and then takes a seat next to Dean. 

Dean has never drank hot tea. He watches as Castiel pours a generous amount of milk into his teacup, eyes the way Benny only adds sugar, and then watches Mrs. Brown delicately add a pinch of both. He’s massively out of his element, in more ways than one; this is the nicest home he’s been in, with a gracious hostess, accompanied by two men he’s pretty sure have killed at least one person each at the minimum (c’mon, statistics of the mob). Castiel catches his eye and arches a brow, before he abandons stirring his tea to plate a croissant for Dean and pass it over to his side of the table, along with the milk. Taking the silent instruction Dean gives a tight smile, hating that Castiel had caught his quiet floundering, and adds a splash of milk to his tea. He stirs carefully, the spoon clinking against the sides of the cup sounding thunderous in his ears, but Benny and Mrs. Brown don’t seem to notice as they start up a conversation about Mrs. Brown’s daughter.

Lifting the cup to his lips for a sip, Dean is surprised at the soft, sweet flavor that explodes on his tongue. He had been expecting something bitter, like coffee, and finds himself taking a deeper drink to really roll the taste around. He sets the cup down and licks his lips and reaches for his croissant; he pauses, glancing over towards Castiel (who is dutifully paying attention to Mrs. Brown talking about her daughter graduating from university) to see how he’s eating the pastry.

With his fingers.

Thank God.

Dean still tries to stay delicate, feeling a lot like a bull in a china shop as he picks apart the croissant and takes a bite. It melts on his tongue, buttery and fluffy, and he can’t stifle the appreciative groan he lets out. Castiel’s eyes turn to him sharply and Dean flushes up to his ears, shifting awkwardly in his seat, and then nearly jumps out of his skin when Mrs. Brown’s hand rests on his forearm. 

“I appreciate a man with good taste,” Mrs. Brown says with a twinkle in her eye. 

“It’s really good,” Dean manages to say through a mouthful. He swallows, “I have a croissant recipe of my own, but you just blew it outta the water.”

Mrs. Brown raises her eyebrows with intrigue, “You have a recipe?”

Dean offers a small smile, “Yeah, I run a little shop by Quincy Market. Make almost everything myself. Bread has always been a challenge for me though.”

That sparkle in Mrs. Brown’s eyes intensifies, her grip on Dean’s arm tightening affectionately. “I would be happy to share the recipe with you.”

Surprised, Dean shakes his head, backtracking. “I don’t- I mean I wouldn’t wanna steal it, ma’am.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Brown tuts, letting go of Dean’s arm to pick up her teacup for a sip. “I’ll write it down for you before you leave.”

“At least let me buy it off you,” Dean tries to reason. 

“Credit me by name and I’ll be satisfied,” Mrs. Brown says resolutely.

Dean sends Castiel and Benny a helpless look - but both men are pointedly not looking at Mrs. Brown, very interested in their respective foods. Resisting a huff, Dean shoves the rest of the croissant in his mouth. “A’right. You come by _’67 IN HEAVEN_ and anythin’ you want is on the house.”

Mrs. Brown pats Dean’s shoulder idly, “Sure thing, darling.”

They stay and visit for another half hour, Dean mostly just listening to the conversation happening around him. Castiel and Benny are very familiar with Mrs. Brown, and she with them, and by the time they leave Dean has her recipe tucked into his pocket safe and sound. She departs them all with kisses to cheeks and warm, motherly hugs, and as they walk down the steps towards the car with her waving them off from the porch, Dean can’t quite place the emotion he’s feeling. It’s been a long time since he’s been in a maternal presence of any sort, under any circumstance. Mrs. Brown had been kind and sweet, even with the underlying sadness of her husband’s disappearance - but every time she regarded Castiel she did so fondly and with such surety that he was going to take care of her. As Dean and Castiel get into the back seat of the car, Benny once again driving, Dean runs a hand through his hair and allows his gaze to fall towards the man next to him.

“You really ain’t the bad guy,” Dean finally decides, out loud. 

Castiel doesn’t say anything as he lifts his elbow to rest it on the door next to him, knuckles on his cheek as he regards Dean in return. “Are you satisfied?”

Scratching his temple idly, Dean shrugs and tries to gather his thoughts. “There’s more people like her? That you’re helping?”

Castiel’s gaze is heavy, before he turns it out the window to watch the passing scenery. “I have reason to believe that Lucifer is behind Mr. Brown’s disappearance, as well as many other men in the greater Boston area.”

Letting out a breath, Dean turns his gaze out the window as well. If there are more sad wives like Mrs. Brown in the city, he can’t just ignore the issue, even if he’d been recruited under coercion. He’s still wary of the whole thing - mafia and all - but knowing that he can make a difference, knowing that he can bring good people like Mrs. Brown a semblance of peace and hope… that sells it for Dean. Even if he still thinks Castiel’s whole deal is sketchy, Mrs. Brown was a real person with real problems and she has her faith set in stone. 

The rest of the ride is quiet with contemplation on all ends. Benny drops Dean off at the gun range where his Baby is parked and before Dean gets out of the car, he’s stopped by Castiel’s voice.

“You are a good man, Dean Winchester.”

Dean looks at Castiel over his shoulder, the way _Winchester_ sounds with that accent rounding out the edges bouncing inside his head. Rolling his eyes a little, Dean does what he does best: deflects. “You’re alright, Cas.” 

He exits the car and shuts the door, watching the vehicle pull away and drive off into the distance. He pulls his car keys from his pocket and jingles them idly in his hand as he reflects over this morning’s activities. He thinks about that happy, smiling photo of the Brown family; he thinks about Castiel’s tattooed and bejeweled fingers delicately handling the teacup; he thinks about firing a gun for the first time in fifteen years. 

His trigger finger twitches minutely. 

The hell is he getting himself into?


	5. Quincy Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short, but pivotal chapter.

Castiel will never forget the first time he laid eyes on Dean Winchester.

Castiel himself had been in the Quincy Market perusing a stand of honeycrisp apples, kindly bartering with the farmer about prices. The day was unusually hot for April, and Castiel remembers thinking about visiting the lemonade stand next for some refreshment. The woman there squeezed the juice on the spot and had different flavored syrups to add on request. Castiel didn’t normally frequent the market, but he had been… _drawn_ there, that day. Just as Castiel reached into his pocket to grab his wallet to buy an apple, the sound of a scuffle caught his and the farmer’s attention. 

“Watch it-!” 

“Hey-!” 

“Ow!”

Straightening to his full height so he could see over some of the people in the crowd, Castiel at first saw an angry looking teen being held by the scruff of his collar. He was holding a wallet in his hand, probably not his own, face red as a tomato. Castiel’s gaze traveled to the person holding the teen hostage, and felt his stomach swoop all the way down to his feet.

The man was tall and thick, and looked very out of place wearing long sleeved flannel, denim jeans, and cowboy boots. His brow was furrowed in discontent, pretty lips frowning, and he looked so _strong_ holding the kid up like some sort of ragamuffin. The kid struggled a bit and then the man jerked him around a little, his free hand reaching to swipe the wallet out of the kid’s grip. 

Fire had lit in Castiel’s soul.

“You picked the wrong pocket, buddy,” the man said, a honey drawl rounding his words and softening his gruff voice. 

Something twisted a bit deeper in Castiel’s subconscious.

“Lemme go!” the kid whined. 

“Nah,” the man gave the kid’s frame a shake, watching in amusement as a few more items fell out of the kid’s coat. “What’s this? You collectin’ for church, kid?” 

The kid buried his face in his hands in embarrassment, and Castiel was surprised to see the man let out a sigh and release the kid from his grip. Castiel took a few steps closer, ears straining and aching to hear more of that honey drawl, taking in the situation with interest.

“You hungry?” The man asked.

The kid stubbornly stayed silent, but he removed his hands from his face to send a tearful glare up at the man. 

“Look, you give me one good reason why you were pickpocketin’, and I won’t call the cops,” the man reasoned.

The kid hesitated for a moment, and then gestured for the man to lean down. The kid whispered something into his ear and the man’s expression softened significantly, Castiel struck by how handsome he looked with his features smoothed out. After a moment the man ruffled the kid’s hair and then wrapped an arm around his shoulders, turning to walk away from the gathering crowd. People lost interest and returned to whatever they had been doing; Castiel, however, found himself following the man and the kid. 

Drawn.

Staying far enough behind to not be noticed, Castiel watched as the man took the kid towards the corner store. From outside Castiel saw the man grab a handbasket and start a conversation with the kid, the laughter on his features and the warmth in his eyes swirling deep inside Castiel’s gut. The handbasket filled with bread, sandwich fixings, a few non perishables, and then the man led the boy up to the counter, his eyes soft but serious as he talked to the kid while he paid for the items. Castiel barely had time to turn away from the window when the man and the kid came out, pulling his phone out of his pocket to scroll idly through a few things and look occupied. 

“You got a lotta free time this summer, Kevin,” the man said. “Come help me out at my shop.”

The kid, Kevin, looked up at the man with unbridled thanks and curiosity. “Didn’t exactly make the best impression.”

The man shrugged and ruffled the kid’s hair affectionately. “Could use someone with your spunk. You show up tomorrow morning at ten a.m. and I’ll get you schooled up. At the end of your shift you can bring whatever’s left of the food home.”

Kevin looked at the man like he hung the moon, and then wiped furiously at his wetting eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester.”

Castiel felt his breath get caught in his throat

“Get outta here,” the man - Mr. Winchester - said fondly, pushing at Kevin’s shoulder. 

Kevin turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, Mr. Winchester looking after him. Castiel turned in the opposite direction, his heart thudding in his chest. Such righteousness this man had shown. Great mercy, respect, and the benefit of the doubt. But Castiel remembered the fierce look in Mr. Winchester’s eyes when he’d caught the kid pickpocketing, and that also intrigued Castiel; a clear definition of right and wrong, and the means to chase after justice without the fear of retribution.

Even against a child.

And what’s more - Mr. Winchester actually helping out the kid and offering what sounded like a summer job. 

What an interesting man, Castiel had thought as he walked away from the scene.

Castiel couldn’t believe his luck that they were in the same place at the same time.

The draw had been undeniable.

Even now, as Castiel walks up to _’67 IN HEAVEN_ , he is intrigued and captivated by Dean Winchester. The notion to recruit him for his vigilante ways - to have his hand in the fight - had been stuck in Castiel’s mind for a long time, for many reasons, but a manner of approach had never presented itself. Not until, by a great stroke of luck, Sam Winchester had came into the equation. Normally Castiel would give Gabriel a great deal of grief for allowing a situation like that to arise, but considering how well it played into his hands, Castiel couldn’t find the energy to do more than say “Really, Gabriel?”, and then let it slide. 

After all, it was only going to be a matter of time until the Winchesters came across the Krushnics.

The door jingles overhead and Castiel is greeted by Kevin, who looks up from the table he’s wiping down with a small smile.

“Welcome,” Kevin greets. Two years working with Dean has treated the young man well. He’s more grown, fleshed out, hair cropped neatly and his demeanor drastically different. 

“Good afternoon,” Castiel greets in return. This is his second time visiting _’67 IN HEAVEN_ and his first time meeting Kevin face-to-face. By the way Kevin ambles behind the counter to assist, Castiel can assume that the kid has no idea who he is. “Is Dean here today?”

“He went on a supply run,” Kevin says. “Would you like a coffee while you wait?”

“And a croissant,” Castiel replies, pulling out his wallet.

Kevin’s eyes drift over the tattoos and rings littering Castiel’s hands and fingers as he accepts the cash, apparently connecting the dots. His affect turns a little stiff, but no less polite, as he hands Castiel back his change and then plates a croissant for him. Castiel glances to the case, pleased to see _Mrs. Brown’s Croissants_ on the little placard in front of the stack of pastries. 

“I’ll bring your coffee to you in a minute,” Kevin says. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says with a nod, turning to take a seat at a table. There are no other patrons in the cafe at this time, a slow Wednesday, and Castiel carefully starts pulling apart the croissant with his fingers, humming at the familiar taste. Dean has perfected Mrs. Brown’s recipe.

“Here you go,” Kevin interrupts Castiel’s thoughts as he sets down a mug of coffee in front of Castiel, along with a canister of sugar and a small pitcher of milk. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says again, sending a kind smile up at Kevin.

Kevin’s smile is a bit shy in return, but he nods and returns to wiping down the tables dutifully.

Ten minutes later Castiel’s croissant is gone, plate cleared by Kevin, and he’s sipping on his coffee as he browses through news articles on his phone. The door jingles and he looks up to see Dean entering, the man’s face lifting in surprise a little upon seeing Castiel, before his brows furrow. He’s carrying a few boxes in his arms and Kevin rushes to help him, the pair walking towards the counter. Castiel returns his attention to his phone, withholding the sigh he desperately wants to let out; he knows Dean isn’t fond of him, at all, but it still smarts a little when the man regards him with obvious displeasure. Their friendly banter two weeks ago with Mrs. Brown seems so far away.

“Go on and unload these,” Dean instructs Kevin. “I'm gonna be out here for a few.”

“Ok,” Kevin says, clearly curious, but wise enough not to ask as he takes a box and disappears into the back.

Dean moves to the table Castiel is sitting at, taking up the chair across from him. He folds his arms over his chest in a way that makes the muscles of his biceps press pleasantly against the sleeves of his henley, and while Castiel is usually a little ruffled at Dean’s body language, today he can't find it in him to care.

“How goes it?” Dean finally asks. His expression is a little dour, green eyes guarded.

“Things are well,” Castiel replies. He had learned quickly that Dean doesn't do small talk, even though Castiel usually takes pleasure in the pedantics. “I came to see how training with Benny is going.”

Dean can’t seem to help but crack a pleased smile, lifting his fist up to his jaw to knuckle lightly at his stubble. “Should ask him how he's doin’.”

Castiel sends over a wry smile, “I tended to his black eye the other day. You are catching on quickly.”

“Ain't no MMA fighter but I can hold my own,” Dean says with a bit of pride in his voice. 

“This is good,” Castiel says. “And the… other training?” He means the weapon locker that Dean has been working his way through at the range, and Dean picks up on the insinuation easy enough.

“You guys are packin’ some heat,” Dean says. His voice lowers a little as he rubs the back of his neck almost sheepishly. “Growin’ kinda partial to the sniper.”

A smile quirks Castiel’s lips. “Long distance?”

Dean nods. “Not sure if or when it'll come in handy but it's cool to learn.”

“All skills are an asset,” Castiel says, picking up his coffee mug for a sip. “In this line of work, one can never be too equipped.”

Dean seems to deflate a little, eyes dodging to the side. “Yeah… s’what I'm afraid of.”

Castiel lets his gaze rove over Dean’s features indulgently for a moment, before he changes topics. “How is your brother?”

Dean’s shift in attitude could short circuit an entire city as he snaps his glare towards Castiel. “You don't getta ask about him.”

Castiel raises his free hand placatingly. “I do not mean to offend, Dean. Despite what you may think I am interested in the welfare of you and your family.”

The measuring look Dean gives Castiel makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There’s something about Dean, behind his easy smiles and guarded eyes, that has Castiel on edge - whether or not he shows it. Almost like Dean is a ticking time bomb, and Castiel is the guaranteed way to light his fuse. It’s hard to get a read on Dean; Castiel gets whiplash from how his moods swing one way or the other without warning. After an intense stare down Dean uncrosses his arms and rests his hands on the table, as if trying to physically un-irritate himself. 

“He met with Gabe the other day. They’re still together I guess.”

Castiel raises both of his eyebrows in surprise, even though this is not news to him. “Oh?” 

“Yeah,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, letting out a blustery sigh. “Your brother’s an asshole, but he really seems to like Sam.”

Castiel offers a wry smile, “Gabriel has many setbacks, but affection is not one of them. From what I gather, he is quite fond of Sam.”

Dean slouches a bit in his chair, one of his knees brushing against Castiel’s under the table and sending an electric charge up the man’s flesh. “Just what I need.”

“How does Sam feel about Gabriel?” Castiel asks, honestly curious.

“He don’t know,” Dean says with a shrug, moving his knee away. Castiel misses the warmth. “And it’s gonna stay that way for as long as possible.” He sends Castiel a flat look. “If your brother breaks my brother’s heart, I am breaking your fucking nose.”

Offering a serene smile, Castiel brings his coffee up for a sip. “I expect no less from you.”

Straightening a little, Dean chews his lower lip, his eyes staring at the mug in Castiel’s hands. “For what it’s worth… I’m thankful that you let him off the hook.”

Surprise overtakes Castiel’s expression, but he schools it quickly. “You must know, Dean, that I would never have come after your brother in a… bad way.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “But you’d send Benny to beat my ass?”

Castiel’s feathers ruffle. “You were told not to resist.” An age-old argument, at this point.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean waves a hand. “Anyway. The bookstore is doing good, Sam’s in one piece, and your brother is a piece of shit but he’s bought Sam so many flowers the kid’s running out of surfaces at home to put them on.”

Castiel hides his smile behind the rim of his coffee cup. “Gabriel is quite the romantic.”

“I don’t approve of their relationship,” Dean says gruffly. 

“Do you disapprove because of his gender?” Castiel asks curiously.

“No-” Dean shrugs and glances off towards the side. “That’d be pretty hypocritical of me,” he mumbles like an afterthought. “Just… Sammy’s my best friend. Kinda shocked is all. That he’d basically come out to a stranger before he came out to me.”

Castiel hums. Dean cares for his brother deeply - something Castiel had known from the very beginning, based alone on the fact that Dean had jumped in front of a freight train for him. He can understand that Dean would be thrown off by something like his brother’s sexuality being a secret until he decided to date someone of the same gender. “Perhaps it all happened before he could understand it.”

Dean sends Castiel a calculating gaze, clearly processing his words as though he’d never thought of it that way before. A few seconds later Dean runs a hand through his hair, shrugging. “I guess. Anyway, I’ll kick Gabe’s ass if he gets Sam into any more trouble.”

“I assure you, Sam is under our protection.” Castiel says easily, setting his coffee cup down. 

“Peachy,” Dean grumbles. “What happened to Gabe, anyway? He get in trouble?”

Castiel stifles a sigh, but a heavy breath still comes from his nose and he sees Dean’s lips quirk idly in reply. “Leniency towards Gabriel is, for some reason, how this family operates.”

“Seems kinda hard to stay mad at the guy,” Dean says. 

“Oh, it’s very easy to stay mad at him,” Castiel replies stiffly. “But he is my accountant, and the best one at that, so even when I feel at my end’s wit with him, I bite my tongue.” He glances up to see Dean giving him the softest, amused smile, green eyes twinkling, lips pulled prettily. It makes heat settle in Castiel’s gut, that expression one he’s never seen on Dean’s face before. “... What?”

“It’s ‘at my wit’s end’,” Dean corrects. 

Castiel swallows. “Ah. Yes.” He doesn’t usually feel embarrassed when he’s corrected on his English, but something about the way Dean is regarding him makes his toes curl idly in his shoes. “In any case, Gabriel is irreplaceable.”

Dean nods slowly, whether in agreement or for just something to do. He then stands, scooting his chair into the table. “I need to get back to helping Kevin.”

“Of course,” Castiel stands as well, and allows Dean to clear away his coffee cup and saucer. “The croissants are lovely, by the way.”

The pleased smile on Dean’s features is well worth any terse moments of conversation they’ve ever had. “Awesome.”

For a moment the pair of them hold eye contact, and then dishes clinking around in the back breaks the moment, Dean darting his gaze away, adam’s apple bobbing with his swallow.

“See ya, Cas.”

“Good afternoon, Dean.” Castiel says with a nod, before departing from Dean’s presence and leaving the cafe. Outside in the sun Castiel takes a deep breath, doing his best to calm his slightly frayed nerves; Dean yo-yo’s between easy conversation and dislike with Castiel so effortlessly, it always leaves him a little rattled. 

So far, things have been easy. Lucifer stays radio silent and Castiel continues doing his ‘good deeds’, knowing full well that it’s only a matter of time for Lucifer to catch on and start snooping around. It would be easier if Castiel knew where his brother had gone. Since the disappearance of the local men started happening, Lucifer has been untraceable. Gabriel has confirmed that even a paper trail has run cold. Castiel assumes that Lucifer is still in the state, but that’s about all he has to go on. Recruiting and training Dean had been a necessary evil - even fated - but Castiel has grown more than pleased at the fact that Dean seems to be a… natural. 

John Winchester was a genius in his own right.

He won’t tell Dean that, of course - the man has made it very clear that he’s not exactly thrilled about his predicament - but the fact that Benny practically sings praises about the man is reassurance all on its own. And Castiel can admit that he’s a little greedy about Dean’s addition to the team; ever since he first laid eyes on the man, Castiel just… _had_ to know him.

Dean barely being able to stand being in his presence is a minor hiccup Castiel is willing to suffer through.

Running a hand through his hair, Castiel starts down the sidewalk, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.

Everything will be worth it, in the end.


	6. Local 149

It’s supposed to be a routine recon mission. Get in, get out, and hopefully come away with more knowledge than what they had going in. It’s been three months since Dean has become part of the Robin Hood Mafia (as he likes to call them in his head) and he’s been training nearly every day of the week. Guns, hand to hand, even a few Russian phrases Castiel thinks are important for him to know. As Castiel’s white russian he’s got to be able to blend in, _belong_ , and Dean’s not proud of it, but he fits like a glove. He’s fitter, stronger, and going on his first mission should probably be nerve wracking, but it’s… not. 

He and Benny have a guy trapped in a dark alley. Dean’s got a .45 in one hand and spare rope coiled in the other in case the guy tries anything stupid; Benny doesn’t have any weapons, since this is, after all, a test of Dean’s loyalty… more or less. 

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” Benny drawls. He pulls the cigarette from between his lips and flicks the ashes off the end. “Where is Lucifer?”

The guy - what was his name, Al? Something stupid like that - rolls his eyes and replies in his annoyingly nasal voice, “I don’t know.”

Benny hums, nodding as if he’s in compliance with what Al is saying. Or was it Art? “See- I know you’re lying.” He drops his cigarette to the ground and snuffs out the cherry with the toe of his boot. “Got you on surveillance, friend.” 

Abe goes a little shifty-eyed, looking for an out.

Dean replies by silently waving his gun towards the man in mock encouragement.

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” Anthony sneers. “You don’t have the ba-”

Dean doesn’t even look when he lowers his gun a fraction and fires a bullet into Andre’s thigh. A piteous, warbled cry echoes in the deserted alley as the man falls backwards, clutching at his leg and sending Dean a frightened, incredulous look. Benny just sighs, walking towards the fallen man, crouching next to him and reaching to grip his chin to force eye contact.

“This is a message,” Benny says, venom dripping from his drawl, his eyes and features cold as ice. “Make sure it’s delivered.” He tucks a folded piece of paper into the pocket of Aaron’s coat. 

“Thank God we’re done,” Dean says as Benny stands and walks back to him. “I’m starving.” 

Benny lofts a brow at Dean and for a moment, they stare very intently at each other, eyes locked. Asshole bleats in pain and Benny blinks, the mood breaking, chuckling as he slings an arm around Dean’s shoulder to lead him out of the alley.

“I knew I liked you,” Benny says warmly.

Dean slides the gun into the shoulder holster concealed by his carhartt jacket, smile crooked. “Aw, Benny. I’ve been waiting for you to confess. Can we go steady now?”

Benny’s free hand slaps against Dean’s chest jovially. “You did good. Let’s report back to the boss.”

They head down the sidewalk towards where they’d parked the car on the street. Dean feels like he should… well, feel something, about shooting a dude, even if it was just in the leg. But quite honestly, tracking the guy down in the first place was a hassle, and then he was a jerk, and then he got annoying, so Dean’s patience had worn thin by the time his trigger finger got itchy. Sue him. And at least it was a non-fatal injury. Dean doesn’t feel bad about that at all. Dude’ll be on his feet in no time.

So to speak.

\--

The aftermath of shooting someone is a strange thing.

Dean has only met Castiel on neutral grounds. The cafe, his fancy car, houses of people they need to visit, training grounds. Dean has no idea where Castiel lives or what he even does in his spare time (all of his movie references say that Castiel lounges in an ornate smoking room with a cigar, lots of jewels around him, and some sort of dog resting at his feet). He’s not blind to the way Castiel looks at him - has always looked at him. Calm and collected, Castiel never gives away much as to what he’s thinking. But Dean… Dean’s familiar enough with the hunger, with the simmering, sizzling need beneath the skin, and he’s more than familiar with that energy being directed at him. Normally, it wouldn’t bother Dean at all. He’s used to that kind of attention.

What isn’t normal is the fact that Castiel doesn’t act on it.

He never touches Dean. Sometimes he stands too close, and Dean thinks he really doesn’t understand the concept of ‘personal space’, but they never touch. Not even casually, accidentally, or in passing. And yes, Dean still thinks Castiel is very… good looking, but something about their interactions leaves him on edge in a way he’s never felt before. It’s especially confusing because Castiel is technically his boss, Dean under a verbal contract, and Dean should only feel unbridled rage towards him. He should only feel anger towards the man blackmailing him into helping him with some sort of crazy mafia mission, the details of which Dean is still in the dark about. 

Despite Dean’s playfully flirtatious advances on Benny, he’s never really been _officially_ into guys. He had a few experimental dates in college, but nothing that went ‘all the way’, no matter how he embellished the stories for his brother and friends when absolutely tanked. Dean is well aware of the attention he gets from all genders, but he responds easier and better to women; men, he doesn’t have the faintest idea how to reply to. 

Ironic, really, that he’s more cut up about being attracted to a guy than shooting one. 

Dean Winchester in a nutshell. 

And it’s not that he’s any sort of… phobic. Because he’s not. Never has been. Thinking about himself in that context is new and strange and something he hasn’t thought about _since_ those college dates. And it’s definitely not something he should be thinking about in relation to the man who holds his metaphorical balls in his hands, and yet there his mind wanders. 

Shit, isn’t the post traumatic stress of shooting a person supposed to be nightmares about guns and death, waking up in cold sweats, and swearing to never touch a weapon again? 

As it is, Dean is sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only his boxers and cradling his forehead in his hands, elbows digging into the flesh of his thighs. It’s nearly four in the morning and he can’t sleep, he _does_ feel jittery and stressed out, but his mind keeps flashing back to his and Benny’s return to Castiel after taking care of what’s-his-name and the way Castiel’s eyes slid down Dean’s right arm, directly to his trigger finger, looking like he wanted to devour it. 

Images of Castiel sucking on his index finger flash unbidden in Dean’s mind and he abruptly stands up, shaking his limbs out and pacing across his floor. 

What the fuck. 

He runs his hands through his hair, releasing a few short breaths. He’s fine. Castiel is just a weird guy with some strange social habits because he has terrible people skills. It’s fine. 

Dean stops pacing, steepling his fingers and pressing them against his lips and the tip of his nose, staring out into the darkness of the pre-dawn sky. He’ll just have to ignore the way Castiel looks at him. If he doesn’t acknowledge or reciprocate, it should stop. Castiel should get the hint. 

Right?

Dean closes his eyes, pressing his praying hands to his forehead. 

He fucking hopes so.

\--

Dean is sitting in a leather recliner, knees spread, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The season has changed from summer to autumn and he reflects that with a coat layered over flannel and thick denim jeans. He’s in the sitting room (the _sitting room_ , fuckin’ rich people) of one of Castiel’s clients - Mrs. Anopalis - by himself. Benny had ducked out the front door to take a phone call, Castiel had excused himself to the restroom, and Mrs. Anopalis said she needed to get the pie out of the oven.

It’s surreal. 

Every time they visit one of Castiel’s clients, it’s the same story. Husband taken. No sign of struggle. No real link between the men. Looking at it from a victimology standpoint, it’s hard to tie any of these cases together. But Castiel is one hundred percent sure his brother is behind these disappearances, and Dean isn’t a freaking detective so if Castiel says so, then so be it. 

But that’s not the surreal part. 

These families are so glaringly… _average_. Apple pie life. Retired wife, or a homemaker; husband with a well paying blue-collar job; always empty-nesters. They don’t really have much to lose, and they definitely don’t have anything to gain, either. Lucifer doesn’t have a ransom on anyone’s head, hasn’t made any demands, and for some reason is slipping through the fingers of law enforcement - which is why Castiel had been inclined to step in. 

What, exactly, Castiel is doing aside from making house calls to soothe worried housewives, has still yet to be revealed. 

“Would you like some pie, Dean?” Mrs. Anopalis appears in the doorway that leads into the kitchen. She’s a school principal type, no nonsense, and Dean finds himself automatically on his best behavior.

“Please,” Dean replies with a genuine smile. He supposes that Castiel’s visits to these women impose some sense of… normalcy, in their upturned lives. Most of their children can’t come visit, and surely they feel all alone with the absence of their husbands, and Dean’s not stupid. 

All of these women treat Castiel like their own son, even if there isn’t ever usually a huge age gap between them. He’s always greeted with hugs, or kisses to the cheek, warm smiles and general fretting.

Castiel returns from the restroom. Dean glances up to him reflexively, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. All of those weird emotions and feelings that war in his gut when they’re in the same room seem to get ramped up when they’re alone. Benny usually acts as a pretty good buffer, but right now it’s just Dean and Castiel in this weird sitting room-slash-study, and Dean is acutely aware of the fact that the only other place to sit is in the recliner right next to his own.

That’s where Castiel takes up residence, casually sitting down and crossing his legs. He rests his left elbow on the cushy arm as he leans back, his other hand resting on his thigh, as his gaze wanders over the many books lining the wall to their right. They’re dusty. Unread in years. There’s a bowl of potpourri acting as a book end. Castiel is wearing a charcoal grey suit today, his tie a dark maroon, and as put together as he looks from the chin down, the illusion is always shattered by his perpetually fucked up hair and the tattoos where they’re visible on his hands and neck. 

Not that Dean is checking out how he looks. 

The silence is uncomfortable, but likely only on Dean’s end. Castiel seems content to sit in silence, like he usually does.

Mrs. Anopalis returns with a two plates of cherry pie. She hands one to Dean first, then Castiel, and then hands them forks. Ever a good guest, Dean gobbles up the first bite of pie with an appreciative groan. He’s lucky that he and Benny train so often, because all of these housewives offering him desserts and pastries surely can’t be good for him. Castiel follows his lead at a much more sedate pace, and Dean resolutely doesn’t look at the way he carefully eats the pie from his fork.

“Thank you,” Dean says to Mrs. Anopalis. “This is the best cherry pie I’ve ever had.” 

Mrs. Anopalis smiles warmly, “Next time I will have some chocolate ice cream to go with it.” 

Dean makes a blissed out face, “Oh, hell yes.” 

“Dean,” Castiel chastises him for his language, though his voice is tinged with a bit of amusement.

Mrs. Anopalis only smiles a bit wider. “It’s alright, Dmitri. I love an honest man.” She winks at Dean and then turns to go back into the kitchen. 

Dean chuckles to himself, happily eating up the rest of his pie. It really _is_ delicious. And he’s never thought about chocolate ice cream with cherry pie before, but now it sounds like something he definitely needs to try. It’s silent again, save for the scrape of cutlery against plates, and as Dean is licking his fork clean he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Shifting his gaze, he looks over towards Castiel who is, of course, staring directly at him.

Resisting a blush (and probably failing), Dean licks his lips and then rests the empty plate on his thigh as he levels Castiel with his own gaze. “Rude to stare, Cas.”

“You have…” Castiel gestures to his own mouth vaguely. 

Arching a brow, Dean lifts his hand to wipe the back of it across his mouth. He glances at it, frowning when his skin is clear of red goo. 

“No, it’s…”

And then Castiel is closing the space between the recliners with his torso, leaning over and reaching out to drag his thumb over Dean’s chin. It’s not a gentle, sweet caress; it’s a firm touch, no hesitation in it, filled with intent.

The intent to wipe some cherry goo off of Dean’s stupid face.

Castiel retracts his hand and Dean is about to thank him for the surprisingly necessary swipe, but then Castiel licks the cherry filling from his thumb, dark blue eyes hooded slightly as he sucks his skin clean. 

Dean forgets his own name.

“Alright boss,” Benny enters the study, oblivious. He sees the empty plates on the men’s laps and pouts. “No pie for me?”

Mrs. Anopalis returns and pats Benny gently on the belly, handing him a kebab stick with fresh fruit speared on it, decorated prettily with a chocolate drizzle. “I know you’re watching your figure.” 

“Sure am,” Benny says amiably. He takes the kebab and then nods towards Castiel, “We’ve got a hit.” 

Castiel sets his empty plate on the little table between the recliners, Dean following suit as they both stand. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Anopalis,” Castiel says sincerely.

Mrs. Anopalis smiles and waves a hand, “It’s always a pleasure to have you boys by.”

They leave with little fanfare, heading down the porch steps to the sidewalk that leads to the car, breaths puffing out in the air in front of their faces. Benny’s car? Castiel’s car? Dean isn’t quite sure. He’s never seen Castiel drive, and he has to wonder if the man even has a license. With Benny behind the wheel and Castiel and Dean in the back seat, Benny pulls away from the curb and starts filling them in on his phone call, his kebab held in his free hand.

“Lucifer was seen on surveillance cameras in Worcester,” Benny says. “He was alone at People’s United Bank.”

Castiel absorbs the information quietly, drumming his fingers on his knee, his other elbow propped up on the door as he rests his chin in his hand and watches the scenery pass. “When.” 

“Thirty minutes ago,” Benny replies. He eats a strawberry, the crunch of the cooled chocolate audible.

“Worcester’s an hour out,” Dean says. “Thought you said he was stayin’ local?” 

“I have doubt he will leave Massachusetts,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “But he has moved farther than I thought he would.” 

“Charlie said he fell off the radar after the bank. No other cameras caught him going anywhere else.” Benny supplies.

“Charlie?” Dean asks. He’s been “in the biz” for a couple of months and only knows Castiel, Benny, and nameless goons #1 and #2 who only come around when Benny isn’t available.

“Another person who owes me great debt,” Castiel says simply. 

“Damn, man, how many people do you got owin’ you favors?” Dean asks, miffed. 

Castiel’s smile is slow. “As many people as I need.” 

Being reminded of the fact he’s been blackmailed into helping Castiel does a good job in souring Dean’s mood. He folds his arms tightly over his chest and glares out the window as they drive towards _’67 IN HEAVEN_ \- they had picked him up in the middle of a shift and he had left Kevin in charge - and does his best to not think about this shitty situation. He thinks about Sam and decides that he should go visit him. They live together, but they come and go at different times and really only have enough energy to exchange a few words if they catch each other before bed, and Dean finds himself missing the oaf. He supposes it’s a good thing he has the opportunity to miss Sam; the distance between them keeps Dean’s little mafia secret under wraps quite nicely.

“Drop me off at _Bobby’s_ ,” Dean says. 

Benny catches Dean’s eye in the rear view mirror, but turns down the next street per Dean’s request. The car is pulling up to _Uncle Bobby’s Books_ in less than ten minutes and before Dean gets out of the car, Castiel’s voice stops him from making a quick exit. 

“Lucifer was not being careless in being caught on camera,” that gravelly voice says slowly. 

Dean turns to make eye contact with Castiel, his glare wilting a little when he sees the somber look on the other man’s face. 

“Be vigilant,” Castiel says, leveling Dean with his cool blue gaze. 

It’s as close to a ‘be safe’ or ‘take care’ as Dean’s gonna get, so he gives a jerky, awkward nod in response and then gets out of the car, making sure not to slam the door. The car pulls off and Dean watches the tail lights for a few moments before turning and entering the book store, the jingling over his head calming his nerves considerably. The familiar scent of books and weird air freshener fills his nostrils and he makes his way towards the back of the store where the register is, rapping his knuckles on the counter.

“Coming!” Sam calls from the storage room. A bit of commotion filters through the doorway before Sam comes out, holding a large box in his arms. He grins when he sees Dean and sets the box on the counter, resting his elbow on it and leaning slightly into it. “Hey! What brings you here?” 

Dean shrugs, reaching to flick a few postcards on the rotating rack decorating the counter. “Got tired of the fresh air. Wanted to smell some dusty old books.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and starts opening the box, pilfering through the contents. “Don’t you have a business to run?”

“Kevin’s watchin’ the store,” Dean says easily. He slides his hands into his pockets, deciding to not beat around the bush. “You still with Gabe?” 

Sam’s gaze snaps up towards Dean, his expression immediately guarded. Interesting. “...Why?” 

Dean shrugs, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. “Just haven’t really seen him around is all.”

“The last time you saw him you threatened him with bodily harm,” Sam says dryly, “because he opened a door for me.” 

Dean bristles. “You ain’t a girl, Sammy.” 

“The gesture was nice,” Sam bites back. 

“Look,” Dean rubs the back of his neck. “You uh. You’re serious about him? Like- you got real feelings and stuff?” 

Sam slows in pulling the books out of the box and stacking them on the counter, those concerned puppy eyes looking Dean up and down. “And stuff.” 

Dean clenches his jaw a few times, before turning slightly away from Sam and gesturing idly with a hand. “And you uh, know ‘bout his family and stuff?” 

“Gabe says they aren’t close,” Sam says. “So I don’t push the topic.” 

Ever mindful Sammy. Always thinking about how the people around him feel, taking their thoughts into consideration. Gabriel’s smart to say that he’s not close with his family; as far as Dean can tell, it’s the truth. Aside from their first meetings, Castiel hasn’t mentioned Gabriel even once. Not that Dean has pushed, because he’s not like that either. He purposely avoids the topic of his own family, Castiel doesn’t ask, and they stay in this nice limbo of being acquaintances. 

“Ok,” Dean lets out a breath. He laces his fingers behind his neck and pulls slightly, trying to release some of the tension there, and then unlaces his fingers to run them through his hair from back to front. Shaking his hands out, he turns to Sam, offering a small smile. “Gotta be a protective big brother, y’know?” 

Sam still doesn’t look fully convinced. He continues pulling books out of the box, stacking them on the counter. After a few moments of silence, Sam lets out a little sigh. “I don’t expect you to understand, Dean. I know it seems odd, but there’s just… something that draws me to him.” 

Dean idly thinks that there’s something inexplicable about both Krushnic brothers that he can’t quite put his finger on. Nodding, he walks back to the counter, peering into the box, deciding it safe to drop the subject. He and Sam aren’t exactly poster boys for ‘expressing feelings’. Sam pulls out the next book and something catches Dean’s eye, a frown creasing his brow as he reaches into the bottom of the box. He grabs a small cloth bag, bound with some sort of twine, pulling it out into the light. “What’s this?” 

Sam blinks a few times, just as confused. “Huh.” He takes it from Dean, turning it this way and that. He brings it to his nose for a sniff, “A potpourri bag?”

Dean snorts. “Helps with that old musty smell.”

“Huh.” Sam says again. He shrugs, setting the bag down on the counter. “Gabe gave me this box, said it came from his family’s personal library.”

Dean doesn’t give the bag another glance. Potpourri must be an east coast thing - he’s seen so much of it lately. “His family probably goes way back. What kind of books are they?”

“Mostly books on sixteenth century Europe,” Sam says. Dean immediately loses interest, but Sam continues. “Revolutions in astronomy and science. It’s really fascinating, the shift in belief-” 

“Yep,” Dean pops the ‘p’ to interrupt Sam, who rightfully gives him bitch face #42. “Would love to hang out and nerd with you, Sammy boy, but I gotta get back to Kevin.” 

Sam waves an idle hand as he rolls his eyes, taking the box off the counter so he can start cataloging the books in the computer system. Dean barely makes it to the door when Sam calls out, “Dean.” 

Glancing over his shoulder, Dean meets Sam’s gaze, arching a questioning brow.

“Thanks,” Sam says. “For checking in.” 

Dean can’t help the smile that tugs his lips. “Later, Sammy.”

The jingle of the door calms him again as he leaves to make the short walk back towards his cafe.

\--

The routine Dean falls into is oddly… nice. He hires a few more hands at _’67 IN HEAVEN_ after realizing he has the finances to do so, which allows him more time outside of the cafe. He promotes Kevin to an assistant manager role, and the kid takes to it easily, reassuring Dean that things will be handled properly at the cafe. 

When he’s not at the cafe, he’s with Castiel and Benny making house calls. They see the same women on rotation every two weeks leading up to the holidays, and occasionally they visit a new woman, husband freshly missing, nerves rightly harried. It’s incredible, Dean thinks, the ease with which Castiel handles the housewives. Dean’s opinion of the guy is still torn in a few different directions; Castiel gets silent and moody on a dime, turns polite and awkward at the next, and even _blushes_ when Dean corrects him on his grammar.

Dean barely notices that Benny never corrects Castiel when he says something wrong.

When he’s not at the cafe or with Castiel and Benny, Dean tries to hang around the bookstore more often. Sam is appreciative of his presence and even occasionally puts Dean to work stocking or cleaning, which Dean doesn’t mind. Bobby’s store has a special place in his heart, too, and Dean has nothing but fond memories of the old coot whenever he’s puttering around the shelves. 

Dean’s in the middle of alphabetizing textbooks on Rutherford when the door jingles. He glances up, ready to greet the customer, and finds himself stopping and arching a brow when he sees Gabriel shaking out his rain soaked umbrella. Straightening to his full height, Dean smiles, but it’s a little tight around the edges.

“Gabe.”

Gabriel glances up and seems unbothered by Dean’s terse greeting. He closes up his umbrella and puts it in the little caddy by the door, loosening the scarf around his neck. It’s not cold enough to snow yet, but it’s cold enough to be annoying. “Dean-o. What a surprise! Sammy got you workin’ part time so you can buy your girlfriend a nice Christmas gift?”

Dean rolls his eyes. He can’t help but relax slightly. Gabriel’s humor is exactly his brand and even if Dean has his faults with the guy - who, by the way, knows full well that Dean is working with Castiel - he can’t help but like him at least a little bit. “Yeah, what’s your mom’s favorite color, again? Gotta make sure the panties match the bra of the set I’m buyin’ her.” 

“Silly boy,” Gabriel tuts as he walks by, patting Dean on the shoulder, “mother doesn’t wear panties.” 

Wrinkling his nose in mild disgust and amusement, Dean watches as Gabriel heads up to the counter. He moves about the bookstore with familiarity that speaks to how often he visits Sam. It kind of irks Dean, but at the same time, comforts him. As far as he’s been able to tell, Gabriel genuinely cares for Sam. If he weren’t in the mafia he’d be the kind of boyfriend Dean himself would pick for his brother.

As it is, Dean has some reservations. 

“Hey Gabe,” Sam greets in a bit of a rush as he calls out from the back room. “I’m almost ready.” 

“Take your time sweet cheeks,” Gabriel says, leaning against the counter. 

Dean allows himself a gratuitous eye roll. “Where you guys headin’ off to?” 

“Lunch date,” Gabriel supplies. He bends over the counter to open a drawer and fish out the “BE BACK IN AN HOUR” sign, twirling it by the string as he sends a sunny smile towards Dean. “Don’t you have one today?” 

Jaw tensing, Dean narrows his eyes. 

Gabriel raises his hands innocently. “Right, right.” He makes a motion of zipping his lips with his free hand. 

Sam comes back out wearing a heavy coat and a beanie over his long hair, eyes bright and smile warm as he looks at Gabriel. “Ready.” 

Dean takes that as his signal to get ready to go, too - because Gabriel’s right. Dean does have a lunch date. With Castiel. 

Correction: lunch… appointment. 

Not date.

Once they’re all properly bundled up against the winter rain they all leave the store together, Sam posting the sign on the inside of the door before shutting off the lights and locking up. 

“You guys walkin’?” Dean asks.

“Driving,” Sam says. He lifts a hand in parting to Dean as he and Gabriel walk down the sidewalk towards where Sam’s car is parked. 

Dean watches them go, curious about the fact that Gabriel doesn’t have a fancy driver like Castiel, but pushes that thought out of his head as he stands outside of the bookstore, hands stuffed in his pockets, thinking idly that he should give in and get a damn scarf. 

Five minutes later Benny pulls up to the curb. Dean gets into the back seat and cups his hands in front of his mouth to blow air on them to warm them up, thankful that Benny’s got the heater blasting. 

“Hey,” Dean greets.

“‘Lo, brother,” Benny replies. 

“Where we goin’?” Dean reaches for the heat controls on the center console that point into the back seat, fiddling with the settings and then adjusting the air flow. 

“Local One-Four-Nine,” Benny replies.

Dean grins. “Awesome. Always wanted to try that place but never get around to City Point.” He leans back in his seat, not bothering with his seatbelt as he folds his arms over his chest to try and trap some of the warmth blowing over him. “Kinda casual though, innit?” 

“Boss didn’t choose the restaurant,” Benny says.

“Who did?” Dean asks, curious.

Benny doesn’t say anything further. 

Huffing, Dean looks out the window. Fifteen minutes later Benny pulls up to the curb and Dean gets out, bracing against a gust of wind and a smattering of rain. He hunkers down and makes his way into the restaurant, eyes on swivel. A host doesn’t greet him right away so he looks for Castiel, finding him tucked into a booth with a single candle in the center of the table. Making his way over, thankful that the restaurant is warm, Dean starts undoing the buttons on his coat as he approaches the table.

“Hey,” he says.

Castiel glances up and scoots over a bit in the booth, a clear indication that he wants Dean to sit next to him. Dean’s suspicion that they’re meeting someone intensifies, and when he gets his coat off to hang it on the hook on the edge of the booth seat, he takes a seat next to Castiel and pointedly ignores the fact their thighs are inches from touching. 

“Who we meetin’?” Dean asks. 

Castiel slides a menu over to Dean. There are two menus and two water glasses opposite of them. When Castiel speaks, it’s soft. “Dean, do not get upset.” 

Dean’s face scrunches in mild confusion. “Why would I get-”

“Dean?” 

Dean’s attention snaps towards his brother, who is approaching the table with Gabriel. Eyes widening, Dean tries to work through the situation in his head, but only comes up blank. He looks between Gabriel and Castiel, lips working but no words coming out, before he starts to feel anger rise up inside of him. “What the _hell_.” 

Gabriel slides into the booth opposite Dean and Castiel, smiling sunnily. “Long time no see, Dean-o!” 

Sam stiffly sits down across from Dean, sending a wary look to Castiel. “... What’s going on?” 

Dean plasters on the fakest smile he can muster as he, too, looks at Castiel. “Yeah, Cas. What’s goin’ on?”

“Meeting the family!” Gabriel says cheerily. He picks up his menu, looking at it instead of anyone else, “Sammy, this is Cassie, my brother. Cassie, Sammy. Dean-o, Gabriel. Gabriel, order the sundae.” 

Dean feels a bead of sweat forming at his temple. Sam is looking between him and Castiel like he’s trying to visually solve a rubix cube; Castiel is quiet as he, too, peruses the menu, and Dean feels the tension inside of him snap like a rubber band.

“What the _fuck_ is happening.” 

“Sammy wanted to meet my family,” Gabriel says simply. “Cassie’s all I got. Didn’t know you were gonna be part of the dealio, Dean-o. Didn’t think you were his plus-one.” 

Fury washes through Dean. He’s spent _so much time_ keeping Sam in the dark about the whole situation, and now Sam is smack in the middle of it, sitting in the same booth as the man who, five months ago, wanted to fucking kidnap him and extort him for an unauthorized financial transaction. His trigger finger twitches. His body tenses, ready to bolt, but Castiel’s hand on his thigh pins him into place like an anvil.

“Dean,” Castiel says, voice irritatingly calm. “It is a pleasure to finally meet your brother.” 

Dean reaches down to push Castiel’s hand off of his thigh, not even bothering to hide the motion. His skin burns through the thick denim layer. Dean picks up his water for a big swallow, sets it down with a clank, and then exhales slowly. “Right.” 

“How do you two know each other?” Sam asks. 

Gabriel keeps his mouth shut. Dean doesn’t know what to say. Castiel offers a serene smile as he replies, “I am interested in investing in your brother’s cafe. He makes wonderful pastries.” 

Sam’s gaze is calculating as he regards Castiel. Dean thinks that if spontaneous combustion were a thing, Castiel would be set ablaze by Sam’s thoughts alone. Kid’s got a pretty intense stare when he’s not being all bitchy or mopey. After a tense moment, Sam relaxes minutely, pulling his menu closer to him. “Dean’s never considered an investor before.” 

“Guy’s like a fly on shit,” Dean says, unable to hide the irritated tone of his voice. “Won’t leave me alone.”

“Your business would be an incredible acquisition,” Castiel says. Two meanings to his words. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean huffs a little. Sam seems to have bought the lie, so he relaxes slightly. 

“Small world,” Sam ends up saying, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. “When did you move to the states?” 

Castiel blinks coolly at Sam. “Fifteen years ago.” 

“So you weren’t born here like Gabe?” Sam asks, falling into curious conversation. He’s a dog with a bone when he’s on to something, and Dean is happy that the conversation has shifted away from his involvement with Castiel. 

“We have different mothers,” Castiel says. “Our father traveled frequently from the U.S. to Russia for business.” 

Sam nods, and Dean starts bouncing his knee under the table. The conversation drifts from there - to how long Castiel has been learning English (“Not as long as I would like. I still have much to learn, according to Dean” and boy, does that earn a very, very arched brow from Sam), to where he’s been in the states, Sam clearly intent on getting to know Castiel. At this point, Sam’s gonna know Castiel better than Dean does.

Dean isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Watching Castiel interact with his brother is otherworldly. Castiel has a specific disposition that he dons when he’s dealing with the housewives; calm, centered, familial. With Sam, Castiel is relaxed enough, but answering straight and intelligently. Intellectually Sam clearly finds Castiel intriguing, and over the next hour as they eat he and Sam get into many debates that Dean can hardly keep up with. Dean spends the time stuffing his face, not trusting his damn mouth to not say something rude (or offer anything intelligent, let’s be real), and Gabriel listens with mild amusement, apparently satisfied that Castiel and Sam get along. 

When the hour is up and Castiel pays the bill for the whole table (Sam protests, but falls silent when Gabriel tells him Castiel would consider it rude for Sam to pay for himself on their first meeting), they all stand and start bundling up for the weather. 

“It was really great to meet you,” Sam says to Castiel with all his innocent gullibility. Always looking for and believing in the best of people. 

“ _Takzhe_ ,” Castiel replies genuinely. “I would love to see you again.” 

“ _Ya tozhe_ ,” Sam says carefully.

“Very good,” Castiel compliments him with an incline of his head. 

Sam beams. Dean rolls his eyes. Knowing Sam, he probably prepared some Russian phrases in preparation of meeting Gabriel’s brother. It would be cute under any other circumstance. Dean can only follow along because he catches snippets of Castiel talking on the phone to other people in Russian, and Castiel peppers enough of the language into casual conversation that it’s easy for Dean to inference the gist of what he’s saying. Sam and Gabriel leave the restaurant first, since Sam has to get back to the bookstore, and Castiel and Dean leave at a more sedate pace. 

They stand under the awning outside, the cold whipping through Dean sharply. Shops are setting up Christmas decorations and the streets are lined with lights, and it’s a rather cheery picture to counteract the gloom of the rain. He wraps his arms around himself and stays quiet, probably scowling, as they wait for Benny to come around and pick them up. A minute or so passes and then Dean is startled by hands on his shoulders - he tenses and turns his head towards Castiel, who is standing stupidly close to him and draping a scarf around Dean’s neck, arranging it neatly and efficiently.

“Why you don’t have a scarf?” Castiel asks. 

Sometimes Castiel’s grammar slips up, especially after speaking a bit of Russian (he’d been snipping at Gabriel in side conversations during lunch). Dean refuses to think it’s cute. Instead he stands stock still as Castiel arranges the scarf, and when he pulls away, Dean cuts his gaze off to the side. 

“Never got around to buying one.”

“Very silly of someone who lives in this region,” Castiel says. Is his voice… teasing? 

Dean swiftly changes the subject. “Y’know, this was really fucked up.” 

Castiel sighs softly. “When my brother gets an idea, he cannot let it go. I couldn’t refuse to meet Sam.”

Reaching up to tug idly on the scarf, Dean frowns and works through the last hour. “It wasn’t… terrible. Just really uncomfortable. I can’t- I don’t want Sammy knowing about the mafia, Cas. ‘Specially can’t let him know how I got involved.”

“I understand,” Castiel says.

“So…” Dean shifts a bit awkwardly. “Thanks. For the cover story.” 

He glances at Castiel just in time to see the smallest, pleased grin stretching his lips. “You’re welcome.” 

Dean looks down at the scarf Castiel had given him. It’s dark blue in color, a lot like Castiel’s eyes, and has a weird grey pattern stitched into it. He holds either end of the scarf, squinting a little to try and make sense of the pattern - are they symbols? He blinks a few times as he looks them over. They look like… 

His eyes drop down towards Castiel’s hands, which are currently covered with warm gloves. The symbols and stitching on the scarf looks eerily similar to some of the tattoos on Castiel’s arms and hands. Before he can ask about it, Benny pulls up to the curb and gets out of the car to open the door for Castiel. Castiel gets into the car and Dean follows him easily, shutting the door as Benny rounds the car to get back in the driver’s seat. 

“What do these symbols mean?” Dean asks. Something is tugging at his mind, but he doesn’t know just what it is. 

Castiel glances at the scarf, and then up to Dean’s face, as if contemplating what he should say. Which is stupid. It’s a fucking scarf. “They are ancient symbols for protection and good luck. They have been passed through generations of my family.”

“S’why you got ‘em tattooed on you?” Dean asks.

Castiel seems surprised that Dean had made that connection. “Yes.” 

“Kinda hooky,” Dean says, shrugging and relaxing back in the seat. He’ll stay in denial about the fact that he could probably draw Castiel’s tattoos by memory. “But thanks. For the scarf.” 

Castiel relaxes as well.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Takzhe - likewise_  
>  Ya tozhe - same   
> (In regards to hoping to see each other again)


	7. No Looking Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grab a drink and a snack, this chapter is 15k and a _ride_.

Watching Dean work is… thrilling in a way Castiel never expected. Benny’s updates about how training has been going are vague at best; Castiel just knows that Benny is proud of Dean’s advancements, and is singing praises about John Winchester’s upbringing that laid the track for Benny to run. Their missions haven’t been too crazy - at least, not by mafia standards.

But then again, Castiel isn’t running your everyday, run-of-the-mill mafia.

As of yet, Castiel hasn’t actually _seen_ Dean in action. 

He had decided to correct that tonight by tagging along on another recon mission. It’s an information grab, trying to squeeze more information out of Alastair, Lucifer’s weakest link. Apparently the last time he’d encountered Dean and Benny it hadn’t ended well for Alastair. Not that Castiel blames Dean for shooting him; there’s been multiple times where Alastair’s voice just _grates_ on Castiel’s nerves and he’s been tempted to shoot him, himself. 

Even though Dean had shot him, Alastair still hadn’t given up any information. It’s time to rectify that.

As the boss it’s a rule to not get his hands dirty, but Castiel has debated breaking that rule at least a dozen times. Then he reminds himself that Alastair isn’t worth the trouble. He isn’t even really worth Dean’s trouble, either, but Castiel is more than happy to put his hands in the air and say he can’t control his trigger happy new recruit. He’d figured out early on that if he painted Dean as a loose cannon, it would be easier to get information from people. 

His perfect white russian has the most beautiful alter ego.

And as Castiel gets out of the back of the car, adjusting his trench coat against the cool night air, drawing the collar up to protect his throat, he wonders if he should have painted Dean in a different light… for his own good. 

Because there Dean stands, feet shoulder width apart, hands tucked into the pocket of his carhartt jacket, backlit by the street light. Castiel knows there’s a gun in the back of Dean’s pants, remembers Benny telling him that Dean prefers the tuck over an actual holster. Dean is broad in the shoulders and narrow at the waist and his bowlegs are as straight as they’ll ever be as he stands at attention. He and Dean stand three feet apart, facing each other, breath fogging in the air between them. 

Benny cuts the engine and joins them. He and Dean exchange a silent nod, and Castiel moves towards the club they’ve parked illegally in front of. The bouncer doesn’t say a word as Castiel heads inside, flanked on either side by Dean and Benny. The patrons of the club see them as soon as they enter, their presence announced in a ripple as the crowd parts to let them pass like Moses through the Red Sea. Flashing neon lights glare across glitter and lipstick, the smell of alcohol and smoke acrid in the air and causing Castiel’s jaw to tense. 

Dean and Benny stay tight. Hardly anyone gets bumped into, because club goers are interrupting their good time to make sure they’re not in Castiel’s way. Castiel sees Dean out of the corner of his eye, watching with suppressed amusement as Dean swipes a shot right out of some man’s hand, knocking it back and then pressing the empty glass back into his palm. The man splutters in surprise, but doesn’t complain. Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Benny lets out a throaty chuckle, clapping a hand over his shoulder. 

Castiel leads them towards the back through doors that are sectioned off from the public. Dressed in a fitted black suit, Armani today, trench coat unbuttoned to air out some of the cloying heat stuck in the atmosphere of the club, Castiel looks one-hundred percent out of place. Then again, so do Dean and Benny - Dean wearing worn jeans and flannel under his carhartt coat, Benny in a waistcoat with his trademark poor boy cap. Everyone in this club is dressed immodestly at best, and Castiel is thankful to be away from the main crowd as they pass through the door. Once again, the bouncer on post barely even blinks. 

Castiel lifts his bejeweled, tattooed right hand to press against the door and swing it open. He enters, Dean and Benny on his heels, and then comes to rest as the door swings shut behind them. The room is occupied by about a dozen people in various states; there’s a stripper snorting cocaine with a questionable man in the corner, a group of people dancing to the booming music with every inch of their bodies plastered together. 

It’s easy to spot Alastair on a plush couch with a cigar in hand, his stiff leg out straight in front of him, cane propped against the arm of the couch as he engages in scandalous conversation with a woman that looks like she would rather be anywhere but here. 

Dean pulls his gun from his pants and fires one shot into the ceiling.

Screams erupt immediately and chaos ensues. Strippers flee on heels higher than their drug dealers, powder fluffing up into the air, cash money spilling onto the floor, drinks tipping over on the tables. Dean doesn’t hide his gaze from the scantily clad women scurrying by him, a devilish smirk on his lips, fulfilling his assigned role as trigger happy and unpredictable. 

It’s all an act.

And yet…

A man runs by and Dean reaches out to slap at his ass, hooting when the man yelps in surprise. Once the room is empty of everyone except for Alastair, who is white as a sheet and frozen in place on the couch, Dean presses a kiss to the barrel of his gun before holding his arm out steady, staring down the sight directly at Alastair’s head.

“Hey buddy,” Dean says, his voice rougher than usual.

It likely strikes fear into Alastair, but it elicits a shiver of a different sort down Castiel’s spine. 

“Dmitri,” Alastair has the audacity to sneer after he clears his throat and adjusts the mismatched buttons on his cheap shirt. “How nice of you to drop in.” 

“Making house call is not my preference,” Castiel says. His accent is a little stronger tonight. He always turns it on thick for show. “I understand the last time you met my… comrades, you were hesitant to speak with them.” Castiel lifts his hands up, fingers of his bare right hand starting to pluck at the fingers of his lone left glove to start slowly, meticulously removing it. “This is very unfortunate for you.” 

“Your new guard dog is a little too excitable,” Alastair says, eyeing the way Castiel is slowly removing just one glove. 

“Oh?” Castiel arches a single brow in vague interest. He turns to regard Dean, who offers a shrug and a cocky smile, lowering his gun just a fraction. “I find him quite… exhilarating.” Castiel says thoughtfully. He sees something flash in Dean’s eyes, but doesn’t dissect it as he instead returns his gaze towards Alastair. “You never know what he is going to do next.” 

Alastair’s demeanor shifts ever so slightly, but it’s enough to have Dean honing in on him. “I don’t have any information for you, Dmitri.”

“Hmm.” Castiel hums contemplatively. When his glove is finally off of his hand he pockets it, and then lifts his now bare left hand up, extending his arm straight out; he tucks three fingers in, pointing with his index finger, thumb straight up in mockery of a gun. “I am not sure I believe you, Alastair. Lucifer was always so fond of you.” 

Alastair nearly spits, “Lucifer isn’t fond of _anyone_. Why do you think he kicked me out?” 

Castiel flashes a predatory smirk. “Because you are disloyal.” 

Alastair is tense as his eyes travel between the three men, before they rest on Castiel’s finger gun. Castiel knows Benny hasn’t drawn a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a quick draw when he needs to be. From what Castiel can tell, Alastair isn’t armed. 

“Boring,” Dean suddenly says, taking a few steps forward. He lowers his gun and by the time he’s up in Alastair’s space Alastair is trying - and failing - to get away, his bum leg making it difficult for him to move. Dean fists the front of Alastair’s shirt, hauling him up with impressive strength. A few buttons snap, and Dean has to readjust his grip. The shirt will likely tear with Alastair’s weight sagging in it, and Castiel watches with idle interest as Dean, seemingly, puts the fear of God in Alastair. “Tell us what you know, rat.”

“He’s up to some weird shit!” Alastair says, his voice reedy with panic. His eyes flick between Castiel and Dean. “I don’t know exactly what it was. He started kidnapping old geezers and wouldn’t say why he needed them and when I asked too many questions he dropped me.” 

Castiel withdraws his finger gun, bending all of his fingers to instead examine his nail beds. “Where is he keeping these men?” 

“Somewhere remote. He never told me.” Alastair struggles uselessly against Dean’s one-handed grip. Honestly, what a weakling. It’s a wonder Lucifer had Alastair in his charge as long as he did - but then again, it’s also no wonder why Lucifer let him go. An idiot in the ranks is only a good idea until it turns into a bad one.

“You sure ‘bout that?” Dean asks. The hand with his gun in it raises and he presses the barrel to Alastair’s temple roughly, likely indenting the skin. “Can I jog your memory?” 

Alastair wheezes and lets out a fairly pathetic noise. “It’s gotta be somewhere by the coast. He gets the cars cleaned every three days, washes the mud from the undercarriage.” 

“That’s strange,” Dean’s head tilts, brows furrowing. “Here you were just sayin’ you didn’t know nothin’. And now you’re sayin’ you know he gets his cars washed. That kinda sounds like somethin’ to me, don’t you think?” 

“I’m sorry,” Alastair babbles as Dean trails the tip of the gun down the side of his head before stuffing it under the soft palate of his jaw. “That’s all I know.” 

Dean snorts, dropping Alastair. The man falls into a heap on the floor and he hisses and groans when his bad leg bends, and Dean turns to face Castiel, looking rather annoyed. “Was he always this useless?”

“I assume so,” Castiel says with a little shrug. He lifts his hand in a finger gun again, pointing it at Alastair’s good leg. He addresses the sniveling man, “Be sure we never cross paths again, Alastair.” He presses his thumb down and flicks his wrist in the mockery of a gun shooting - but Dean’s gun _does_ fire, shooting a bullet into Alastair’s good thigh, right where Castiel had been pointing. 

Dean’s smirking as he tucks his gun back into his pants and adjusts his shirts and coat over it. He returns to Castiel’s side, where Castiel is carefully pulling both gloves back onto his hands, mindful of his jewelry. Alastair is howling in pain, likely trying to draw as much attention to the area as possible, but considering everyone saw Castiel and company enter the room, no one is going to be surprised when they leave it in disarray. 

Castiel’s reputation usually precedes him, and since Dean has made his presence known as part of his entourage, he has his own reputation. It’s been interesting seeing Dean mesh mafia life with cafe life; surprisingly, the customers that have caught wind of Dean’s after-hour activities have expressed support for the Krushnic family, saying that if a man like Dean can find good in Dmitri, then maybe citizens should, too. It’s all been an incredible boost, an unforeseen political move to separate Dmitri Krushnic from Lucifer Krushnic and pin him as a protector, not a thug. 

Castiel had been playing with his cards close to his chest, and Dean ended up being the ace up his sleeve.

A pleasant surprise, indeed. 

As they leave the club they find the crowd back in its usual groove and flow. The blaring music likely drowned out any gunshots or struggles, and the patrons move out of their way as they walk through the crowd, Castiel once again flanked by Dean and Benny. There’s a pleased warmth settled in Castiel’s gut as they leave the club. In the cool night air he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly to watch it curl on the breeze. 

“D’you think he was tellin’ the truth?” Dean asks.

Castiel turns a thoughtful gaze towards the man, regarding him quietly, intently. Dean doesn’t look terribly bothered by the fact he just shot a man in public, but then again, it _was_ Alastair. Dean might even shoot to kill, if instructed, in regards to that sorry excuse of a man. It might not even take any instruction at all. Perhaps, instead… permission. Yes. “I do.” Castiel answers after a beat. 

Dean squirms slightly under Castiel’s gaze. This isn’t unusual; Castiel knows he can be a little intense, but whenever he has the chance he always does his best to get his fill of looking at Dean. This enigma of a righteous man who takes direction while simultaneously carving his own path. He’s admirable. Castiel respects him. 

Appreciates him. 

If Dean Winchester is good to look at, Castiel keeps that preference to himself. 

“Alright. So we got the info, now what are we gonna do with it?” 

“I am going to consult with my specialist about how to zero in on Lucifer’s location,” Castiel says. “We will be able to decide our next move from there.” 

Dean nods, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. Benny opens the back door of the car for Castiel, and Castiel turns up the collar of his trench coat as he turns towards Dean, regarding him quietly. This time Dean doesn’t squirm away from his gaze; he stands a little straighter, tips his chin up, a defiant furrow to his brow.

Smiling small, Castiel says, “You did well tonight, Dean.”, and doesn’t miss the pleased gleam that flashes through emerald eyes under the dim glow of the street light. 

He gets in the car and Benny drives them away from the club, Castiel looking out the window into the dark night and replaying the way Dean had looked: wild and feral... and yet so controlled and poised with a gun in his hand and his fist near a throat.

\--

Charlie’s house is… eclectic. To put it tamely. She lives in an attached brownstone, the bricks painted bright yellow, the door lime green, and so many plants flowers and shrubs in the front garden the porch is barely visible. While most would consider it an eyesore, Castiel loves it. What’s on the outside reflects the energy on the inside. Passersby routinely take photos of the house, and the neighbors seem friendly enough, and Charlie is more than content in this ‘fairy tale dream home’. 

Castiel is a single speck of darkness in the daylight as he makes his way up the walkway. The greenery is all dead for the winter, grey clouds above threatening snow, but his memory is fresh with how the landscaping looks in the third week of spring. He gets a lot of his herbs from Charlie’s carefully tended garden, and when the cold snaps hit, she dutifully brings the most important plants inside. He doesn’t make house calls to Charlie often, but the sighting of Lucifer has prompted a more hands-on approach to the situation. 

Knocking on the door, Castiel slides his hands into the pockets of his trench coat as he waits. There’s music inside the house, muffled by the door which is decorated with a multi-colored Christmas wreath; the sound blares when the door opens and Charlie greets him with a huge grin.

“Heya, stud!” Charlie greets enthusiastically. Her red hair is up in a messy topknot and she’s wearing a Gryffindor sweatsuit, looking quite comfy and cozy for the impending blizzard. 

“Hello, Charlie,” Castiel greets.

She moves aside so he can enter. Taking off his trench coat and hanging it on the mounted, dismembered creepy claw-hand next to the door, Castiel shakes the cold clinging to his body. Charlie moves into the living area and turns down the music, sitting down on a hot pink couch and wrapping herself up in a yellow fleece blanket. The coffee table has been pulled closer to the couch and that’s apparently where she’s been setting up office today, her laptop half closed, the lid of it decorated with all sorts of memorabilia stickers. Littering the coffee table are knick knacks, wires, books, and a half empty coffee mug. Castiel takes a seat in the purple velvet wing chair adjacent to the couch, smiling thankfully when Charlie grabs another blanket - orange - and hands it over to him. 

“Alright, so your brother dearest is practically a ghost,” Charlie says. Despite her words, there’s a glint of satisfaction in her voice. “It’s a good thing I’m an internet Ghost Buster.” 

Castiel tips his head as he drapes the blanket over his lap, carefully tucking it under his thighs to trap some warmth. “You found him?” 

Charlie opens her laptop all the way and turns it so Castiel can see the screen. A map is displayed, a few blinking red dots spread around an area that looks fairly rural.

“Where is that?” Castiel squints.

“West Barnstable,” Charlie says, “near the Great Marshes.”

Castiel’s eyes widen slightly. “How did you do this?” 

“Simple, really,” Charlie says, cracking her knuckles and bringing her knees up so she can curl up on the couch and give Castiel her full attention. “After that surveillance footage of the bank - which I caught live, by the way, you’re welcome for not having a social life at all lately - I sent off a drone.” 

“A drone,” Castiel repeats.

“Not like- not like a _huge_ thing, I’ve actually created and modified a little tiny robot. I’m like a Marvel scientist, man.” Charlie grins and gets up off of the couch. She keeps the blanket wrapped around her as she walks into her dining room, which has been converted into something that looks like a mad scientist’s laboratory, and then returns with a small item in her hand. She holds it out for Castiel to see, looking very proud of herself. The robot is about the size of a brooch with little rudders that, Castiel assumes, makes it fly. It doesn’t have a definitive shape or really look like anything, but it’s inconspicuous enough that she would be able to fly it virtually anywhere undetected. “This sucker’s got a fifty mile range on it and I can control it remotely from my laptop.”

Impressed, Castiel nods.

Charlie continues, “Anyway, I dropped one of these guys on the roof of the SUV Lucy was riding around in because I figured he’d be skipping town pretty quick. After fifty miles the range distorts and I can’t fly it, but it can still send me data.” She sets the device down on the coffee table and then resumes her perch on the couch, re-wrapping herself in the blanket. “So: I watched my little guy ride passenger for about an hour and a half - again, you’re welcome for being a hermit since you’ve hired me - and then the signal dropped near the marshes. I’m assuming they’ve got some sort of commercial space there. There’s plenty of green space to build, and I bet your charming brother could convince anyone to give up a few acres of land.” 

Sighing softly, Castiel sits back in the chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose idly. “You can’t pull up any new buildings on satellite?”

Charlie shakes her head, “Already gave that a try. Nada. He could have the place camouflaged.”

Castiel smiles grimly. “I have no doubt he is taking every measure to stay concealed.” 

After a beat, Charlie says, “There’s one other thing.” 

Castiel glances up at her, surprised to see her looking slightly uncomfortable. She won’t meet his gaze, and her fingers are picking at the frayed edges of her blanket idly. “What thing?” 

“... Jack,” Charlie says. 

Castiel’s heart slows in his chest. “Jack. You saw him?” 

“Not exactly.” Charlie has a little grimace on her features. “So the signal dropped near the marshes. The reason for that could have been one of two things: one, Lucifer found it and smashed it. Two, someone found it and _turned_ it off. Now, it’s not the first thing, because even though the signal dropped, my sensors still showed power being generated through it - it’s still got juice. So then that means it’s the second option.”

Castiel’s slowed heart starts picking up speed. “And?” 

“And Jack is the only one who knows how to work a device like that. The only one who knows how to turn it off without destroying it. A.K.A., remotely. He’s not like you guys,” she manages a small, rueful smile. “He was always interested in learning about my projects and I taught that kid a lot. His brain’s a freaking sponge.” 

Dropping his gaze to his knees, Castiel stares at the bright orange blanket draped over his lap. Jack is with Lucifer - they have known that since the beginning. But he has been more of a ghost than Lucifer and for a while, Castiel had feared the worst for him, and had come to brace himself for a less than ideal outcome of his whereabouts. But learning that he is still alive, and had turned off the device instead of destroying it is… telling.

Lucifer does not have a hold on Jack. The thought that Jack chose to stay with him willingly dwindles.

“Does your device only transmit signal?” Castiel asks. 

Charlie nods. “Yeah. But the data chip can be read by the right person.”

“Can you modify the data chip remotely?” Castiel presses.

Charlie’s brow knits for a second in confusion, and then her face melts into a smile. “I can try.”

“Good.” Castiel stands up, starting to neatly fold the blanket. “Put coordinates on it. Encrypt them in a way only Jack could understand. I will send a team to collect him in forty-eight hours.” 

“Holy shit,” Charlie flies forward to her laptop, pulling it onto her lap, fingers a blur over the keyboard. “Ok. Ok, I’m gonna get right on that, boss. Should have the message sent in three hours.”

Nodding in satisfaction and feeling a renewed sense of direction and purpose, Castiel puts the neatly folded blanket on the chair. He feels energized. Hopeful, even. “ _Spasibo_ , Charlie. Good work.” 

“Hey-” Charlie calls to him as he’s getting his trench coat off of the hand. “What team are you gonna send in? The new guy?” 

Castiel considers his options. Extracting Jack from Lucifer’s hold is going to be difficult. His stronghold will be heavily guarded and protected. While Dean is tactile and more than physically capable of carrying out the mission, there are still things he doesn’t know about the Krushnic family.

That lack of knowledge could get him killed, and Castiel gets a very odd, squirmy feeling in the pit of his stomach when he envisions that outcome.

“Send the coordinates in three hours, Charlie. Update me when you do.” Castiel says, pulling his trench coat over his shoulders. He exits the brightly colored house, leaving the warmth and charm and safety, the heels of his shoes clacking on the stone pavers winding through the small yard leading out to the street. 

Castiel has a decision to make, and three hours to do it.

\--

Castiel is very careful about who he allows in his home. Since Lucifer went rogue three years ago he moved three times for good measure, and once he finally settled in this small colonial three-bedroom home tucked back in a grove of trees, he took every measure to make sure no one could find him. The only people who have ever stepped foot over his threshold are Benny and Charlie. Castiel’s home is his sanctuary, and every time he leaves it, he feels displaced and out of sorts. Benny’s company usually tempers the knots in his gut, and more recently, Dean’s presence does much of the same. 

It’s where Castiel feels the safest. 

A knock on his door draws him from his thoughts. He’s been standing against his kitchen counter for the past hour, eyes skimming over an old book, vision going slightly blurry as he tries to work through the situation on his own. Releasing a tired sigh Castiel leaves the kitchen and moves to the front door, opening it to welcome Benny inside. 

“Hey, boss,” Benny says, voice soft. 

Castiel doesn’t return the greeting. Benny takes his time undoing his layers and hanging them up in the foyer closet while Castiel returns to the kitchen, closing the book he’d been reading. Benny joins him and takes a seat at the breakfast bar opposite of Castiel, resting his elbows on the counter and tilting his head. 

“What’s on your mind?” 

“Charlie found Jack,” Castiel says, “and in one hour is going to send him coordinates for an extraction.”

Benny’s brows raise in surprise. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“I need you to do it,” Castiel says.

Benny nods. “‘F course.”

“But you need a partner,” Castiel continues.

Benny nods again, slower this time. “...Ok…” 

Castiel drags a hand down his face. “I had been hoping we would have more time to get Dean fully acquainted with us.”

“Boss, you can’t be suggesting that Dean come along with me,” Benny says, surprise in his gruff voice. His eyes are full of concern. “He’s not ready.”

“I’m well aware,” Castiel agrees. “But you cannot do this alone, Benny. I won’t allow it. And no one else in my charge has the skills necessary to accompany you.”

“But he doesn’t even know what we’re up against,” Benny says, straightening on his stool and putting his palms on the counter. 

“I’m unsure if there is way to ease him into it,” Castiel counters. “At the very least you need a man on the outside. I can entrust you with getting Jack, and I can trust Dean to have your back.”

Benny rubs both hands over his face, breathing deeply as he considers Castiel’s words. He lowers his hands to rest them on the counter again, fingers loose, and then nods. “I trust him, too.” Another breath, and he relaxes slightly. “Alright. We’ll go in for the extraction. Dean’ll drive and keep the perimeter while I go in and get Jack, and then we’ll get outta there.”

Castiel leans his hip against the counter, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “If only it were that simple.”

“Dean’s got a pretty good arsenal,” Benny says, “but we’re going to have to modify his weapons.”

Castiel smiles wryly at the floor. “Good luck touching his things without him noticing.” 

“Do you think he’d accept temporary weapons?” 

Castiel considers. “He is very comfortable with what he has, but we can give him virtually the same pieces with our modifications. They won’t handle any differently than what he is used to. We could explain to him that for now, if any evidence is recovered by police, we would rather it be from our lock up, not his.” 

Benny nods. “Alright.” 

They fall into a brief silence. Castiel is still staring at the floor, feeling mild anxiety about Dean accompanying Benny. It is ultimately Castiel’s decision to make, and in the end it will be the right decision, but it still doesn’t sit well with him. So many things could go wrong. Benny is more than capable of handling things if they go south, but he can’t do it alone, and Castiel has no one else in his small following who is qualified to partner with him. Having Dean on the outskirts as backup is ideal. 

Whatever happens in the interim, Castiel will have to deal with upon their return. 

“Boss,” Benny says, voice soft. 

Castiel glances up towards his friend. Benny looks soft under the ambient track lighting, his beard neatly groomed, eyes bright. When he smiles at Castiel his canines glint, and Castiel finds himself giving a feeble smile in return. 

“We’ll get Jack.” 

Castiel nods. “The mission is priority. But…” he drums his fingers idly over his bicep. “Ensure that Dean’s safety is also priority. I trust you to make the right decisions.” 

Benny nods, expression serious. “Sure thing, boss.” 

\--

Charlie texts Castiel on the dot, confirming the transmission of coordinates as well as the time. There’s no way for Jack to reply to the message, so they can only hope that Jack will be at the extraction point when the time comes. A few hours later and after a few glasses of wine, Benny gone for the evening, Castiel calls Dean. Curled up on the couch in a blanket with the fireplace crackling, he takes in a deep breath and gives himself a little bit of strength and safety.

Dean answers on the fourth ring. “Yeah.” 

Castiel resists an eye roll, even though Dean can’t see him. Dean can be hot or cold in an instant, and apparently is choosing to be frigid right now. “I have your next task.” 

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a door shutting, and then Dean replies, “When?” 

“Tuesday evening, eleven p.m.,” Castiel replies.

“Some of us have a bedtime,” Dean says, but there’s a bit of amusement in his voice. 

“Dean,” Castiel says evenly, “we are going to extract a hostage from Lucifer’s compound.”

“Holy shit.” Silence follows those muttered words, and then when Dean speaks again, his voice is considerably softer. “Holy shit, you found Lucifer?” 

“Charlie is zeroing in on the precise location,” Castiel says. It’s not a complete lie; Charlie needs a general area, and Benny will be able to figure out the rest upon arrival. “You will be accompanying Benny as backup.” 

“Ok,” Dean breathes out. He’s being unusually quiet, which must mean he is at home, and Sam must also be somewhere near him. 

Castiel feels a bit of surprise. “You are… alright with being backup?” 

“Look,” Dean says, voice still quiet, but now with a bit of an edge. “I’m not an idiot. Lucifer is the real fuckin’ deal and I’ve been with you guys for six months. If I could avoid seeing him at all I’d be good. Not really interested in being turned into a punchin’ bag.” 

Castiel sags in relief, lifting his free hand to press his fingers into his forehead, thumb rubbing his temple idly. “It was difficult coming to the decision to allow you to help Benny at all, but you are the only one who can.” 

“A’right,” Dean agrees. “Tell me what I gotta do.”

Dean’s attention in this moment is emboldening. He is a man of focus, a man who never does anything in halves - even if he is technically with Castiel against his will. But having his attention like this, knowing that Dean is ready to listen to Castiel’s orders and follow them to a T - it has Castiel’s heart thudding with a tiny rush of adrenaline.

“You will drive,” Castiel starts explaining. “We are going to provide you with a specific set of weapons. Benny knows where you will be parking the car. You will wait there for him to return. Your job is to provide backup if things go sides.” 

“Sideways,” Dean says softly.

Castiel barely pauses, Dean’s little corrections something he has gotten habitually used to. “Sideways. Once the hostage is recovered and Benny is at the car you must get out quickly. You will not be able to return home for twenty-four hours in case Lucifer gives you tail.”

“Tails you.”

“I have safe house set up in Osterville. When it is safe for you to return home I will send a message.”

A few moments of silence pass. When Dean speaks again his voice is farther away, and Castiel imagines him putting the phone on speaker so he can start looking at something on his phone. His calendar or work schedule, perhaps. 

“Got it.” There’s some shuffling and then his voice is closer again. “Everything ok?” 

Castiel blinks at the question, and then finds himself frowning and squinting into the flames of his fireplace. “...Why are you asking this?”

He imagines Dean shrugging. There’s a bit more shuffling and then a bit of an echo when he speaks next. “This is big, right? Getting a hostage.”

“It is… monumental,” Castiel agrees. After a moment, he says, “Were you asking after my wellbeing?” 

“Well-” Does Dean sound… flustered? “Kinda. Yeah.” Then, stubborn. “Can’t I?” 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel says softly. “I simply did not expect it.” 

“I’m not that big of an asshole,” Dean grumbles. The sound of water running in the background filters through the tinny speaker.

Water.

Echo.

Dean is preparing for a shower. 

Castiel’s cheeks heat slightly. “I never said you were.” 

“Alright.” 

The conversation has turned stilted. Castiel and Dean rarely talk on the phone - Castiel prefers to talk in person to pretty much everyone - so it’s no wonder conversation has devolved. 

“I will leave you to your evening.”

“‘Kay,” Dean exhales, seemingly relieved for the conversation to be ending. 

“And Dean,” Castiel says, before he doesn’t say anything at all.

“Yeah?” 

“... Be safe.” 

“... Thanks.”

The line goes silent and Castiel drops his phone to the couch, lifting both his hands to run his fingers through his hair and let out a little sigh. He doesn’t blame Dean for acting so unsavory towards him all the time. Being blackmailed into the mafia isn’t the best way to make friends, Castiel knows, but it was the only way to ensure he had Dean’s allegiance. Sam falling into Gabriel’s orbit had been the blessing they were waiting for and Castiel simply couldn’t think of any other way to get Dean. Keeping Dean in the dark isn’t really something Castiel is in favor of, either, but as he discussed with Benny… there will be no delicate way to lay out the whole situation. 

Castiel has his reservations about Dean accompanying Benny to get Jack, but at this point, there is no other choice. 

Dean Winchester will learn everything.

\--*--

They take Dean’s car. 

Benny, at first, looked ready to suggest otherwise, but Dean’s narrowed eyes and arms crossed over his chest were apparently enough to have Benny relenting to the decision. Especially after Dean showed off the modifications he had made to his Baby; specifically the false trunk that hid his arsenal of weapons. Benny had loaded up the space with weapons he said were pertinent and important to this singular task - Dean assumes it’s some sort of forensic countermeasure - Dean’s own collection in the safety of a locked safe inside his closet at home.

Benny doesn’t seem concerned about how noisy the engine of the muscle car is, which Dean is thankful for. They always take Benny’s weird computerized Mercedes everywhere and Dean misses driving his baby around. Going on a mini road trip, even for a mission, appealed greatly to Dean’s antsy lead foot, and Benny is generally agreeable; so speeding down the back roads on the way to Barnstable is a bit more enjoyable than it probably should be - you know, as a prelude to what is likely going to be a night of violence.

Dean stays off the freeway and highway. If Castiel is careful enough to suggest they stay in a safe house, Dean figures it’d be best to avoid any road with any sort of traffic. Not only to steer clear of potential cops, but also just to make sure they’re invisible going in - no traffic cameras to track their movement. The roads are windy and dimly lit and slick in spots, Benny doesn’t complain when Dean blasts Metallica, and they’re pretty much quiet the whole time.

It should be… scary, Dean thinks. This mission. They’re extracting a hostage from a dangerous man - a dangerous complex, from the sounds of it. Dean has been in Castiel’s charge (Castiel’s words, not his own) for almost seven months, and in that time Dean has learned way more than he ever thought he needed to know in life, for any reason or situation. He thinks that, perhaps, he should be concerned as to how easy it is for him to throw some guns in the trunk of his car and drive off into the night. Maybe he should be concerned that when Castiel says jump, he asks “how high?” - and he should probably, definitely, totally be concerned about the fact that this has become less about keeping Sam from Castiel’s debt, and more about Dean actually integrating into the lifestyle.

He wrings the steering wheel idly. Forty-five minutes until they arrive at the coordinates.

Dean’s mind wanders to his childhood; he thinks about how his dad raised him and Sam to basically be glorified boy scouts. Know how to handle the wild should they ever get lost, understand the honor in hunting, learn how to read the stars. He thinks about his dad always teaching them these things like some day they might actually get into a situation where their lives depend on this knowledge; he thinks about how John had only gotten more insistent, after Mary died. 

Learning how to use a gun hadn’t been too strange a thing in rural Texas in the 1980’s. People who didn’t have at least one firearm were the minority. The other things John insisted on, like having a ten pound bag of salt in the car at all times, and these weird little charms dangling from the trunk lid - they were a little outside the norm, but Dean never really thought twice about them. Figured his dad was just superstitious. So he keeps salt in the car and the charms in his trunk and calls it good.

Habit, he likes to think.

Still, there was always an underlying importance to the things that John taught his boys - something never directly said, always intangible - and Dean was always good at shutting up and saying ‘yes sir’ when it counted. 

That might be how he got into this whole situation in the first place. Some misplaced and ill-fated attempt to make some sort of amends with his dead father. 

_”Protect your brother with your_ life, _Dean.”_

“Here.” Benny’s voice pulls Dean’s head out of the clouds.

Dean pulls over where Benny is pointing, a small grove with overgrown trees and so much freshly wet mud Dean internally winces as he thinks about the detail job he’s going to have to give his car when this is all over. He parks, turns the engine off, kills the lights, and then sits back in his seat to try and stretch his legs. Benny is already getting out of the car so Dean rolls his eyes and follows before he has a chance to relax, standing straight and stretching his arms over his head.

They move to the back of the car, Dean using his key to pop the trunk. They lift the lid and then the false bottom, Dean propping it up with a sawed off while Benny grabs a few things. A couple guns, some knives, extra ammo, and a weird gadget Charlie had configured specially for this mission. Dean has yet to meet Charlie, but he sort of can’t wait. He would like to nerd out over her tech, but preferably without anyone judging him.

Benny.

Benny would judge him and make fun of him forever.

“A’right,” Benny says, patting himself down one last time. He and Dean step away from the trunk so Dean can close it. “You got your ear piece?”

Dean pats the front pockets of his jeans, before pulling the small ear piece out. “Yep.” He finagles it a little and then gets it situated, working his jaw a little to get it to pop. Feels slightly more comfortable than an earbud.

“Good,” Benny puts his ear piece in as well and then turns towards the forest, gaze far away. “Extraction should take twenty minutes. If I’m not here on the _dot_ ,” Benny turns to look at Dean, “you head to the safe house, brother.” 

Dean frowns a little, “But-” 

“No buts.” Benny says, voice solemn. His eyes regard Dean with an odd fondness, and he reaches out to grasp at Dean’s bicep, fingers digging almost comfortingly into his muscle through the layers of his coat and flannel. “You make me proud, y’hear?” 

Frown deepening, Dean wants to protest Benny’s order, but realizes a little belatedly that Castiel must have had given it. So he tamps down any objections - of which he has quite a few - and then reaches up to grasp Benny’s shoulder in turn. “See you in twenty.” 

Benny’s smile is grim as he nods and then turns to start walking into the forest. Dean watches his back until he can’t anymore and once he’s alone, he shakes his hands out and paces back and forth next to the car. Benny’s departure leaves a heavy weight in his gut. With nothing but the sound of the weird, marshy forest around him, Dean tries to keep his brain occupied and does his best to not lose his focus. He’s on alert as he paces around his car - he looks up and down the road, bends to flick some mud off of his fender, walks along a fallen log. 

At sixteen minutes gunfire echoes through the forest. Or- at least, it sounds like gunfire, but… a little different. Tiny explosions. Dean whips around to look into the pitch black forest, unable to see past the thick shrubs and greenery, the hair on the back of his neck rising. Turning to his car he knows he should get behind the wheel and be prepared to peel outta here the instant Benny and the hostage show up, but it sounds like there’s a lot more happening than just Benny can handle. 

Dean pops the trunk and pulls out a semi automatic with his right hand, nestling the butt of it into the crook of his elbow. He pulls out his favorite Beretta with his left hand and checks both to make sure they’re loaded, safety off, and then moves to put the keys in the ignition of the car, starting it up. The Impala roars in the dead of night, gunfire the backdrop to its sweet melody, and then Dean walks twenty paces to the edge of the forest, armed and alert, eyes narrowed as he lets his gaze scan over the forest. 

The little explosions are visible now, they’re so close. There are some bursts of orange flames - but also purple and pink and red, and Dean wonders if they’re using road flares to light the way. At eighteen minutes a man - no, a fucking _kid_ no older than twenty-five - spills out of the forest. He’s wearing khakis, a gunpowder stained white tee, his flannel ripped to shreds and he… looks almost exactly like Castiel.

Dean holds his fire. 

The kid stumbles past Dean towards the car, where Dean hears him hit the pavement on the other side, likely taking cover. 

Twenty minutes on the dot, Dean reminds himself. The hostage (who _is_ this kid?) has been saved, and if Benny isn’t here when twenty minutes is up, they gotta bust tail. 

Still standing with both weapons cocked and ready, Dean braces himself. 

Benny bursts from the trees at an inhuman speed, his torso and face covered in blood. Dean squeezes the triggers but doesn’t pull, waiting to see if anyone else is following after Benny. Unlikely, though. He’s never seen Benny move so fast. 

“Get in the car!” Benny yells, his voice coming out guttural and raw. 

Dean turns and engages the safety on his guns, tossing them into the trunk. Benny no longer has any weapons. Dean slams the trunk as Benny leaps into the passenger seat, and as Dean rounds the car he grabs the kid by the scruff of his tattered flannel to heft him off the ground and toss him unceremoniously into the back seat. Behind the wheel Dean puts the car into drive, tires skidding on pavement and kicking up bits of frozen mud, then they’re off like a rocket. 

It’s silent for ten, tense minutes. Dean checks all his mirrors, doubles back at a few points and even drives through a few fields before he comes out on the road he’d mapped out last night that would lead them to Osterville. Relaxing minutely, Dean loosens his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and sits back slightly, letting out a breath. 

“Fuck.” He glances over towards Benny, who has a hand over his stomach. Dean’s eyes narrow. “Did you get shot?”

Benny waves his free hand, “Don’t matter brother. Get us to the safe house.”

“I got a first aid kit in the trunk,” Dean says, trying not to let panic course through him. Benny’s been shot - Benny’s been shot - Benny’s been shot - “Who’s the kid?” he asks instead, tossing his thumb over his shoulder.

“That there is Jack,” Benny says, his voice slightly strained. Dean presses down a little harder on the gas. “Castiel’s cousin.”

Dean chances a glance at the kid in the rear view mirror. “Cousin? Kid is a fuckin’ spittin’ image of Cas, man.” And definitely not too old to be something other than Castiel’s cousin, for sure.

Benny smiles wryly, blood on his teeth. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“You are Dean,” Jack says suddenly.

Blinking a few times, Dean meets Jack’s eyes. It’s… uncanny, and kinda weird, just _how much_ Jack looks like Castiel. “I am.” Dean turns his attention to Benny. “You wanna tell me why we rescued a kid instead of one of the hostages?”

“He was a hostage,” Benny says gruffly. “Boss needs him. He needs us. Lucifer…” he shakes his head. “Lucifer would be too powerful with Jack on his side.”

“He’s a _kid_ ,” Dean reminds Benny. Not that Dean has much room to talk - at forty, everyone seems much younger than they actually are, to him. “What help could he give Lucifer?” 

“I possess many skills,” Jack says. He’s, eerily, not as out of breath or disheveled as Benny. “I am an asset.”

Dean squints into the mirror. “Right.” 

Jack falls quiet, and so does Benny. It takes another ten minutes for them to pull up the address Castiel had Dean memorize; he parks the car in the garage, disarms the security system from his burner phone (again, he’s super excited to meet Charlie), and then gets out of the car. Benny is a little slower than normal and Jack seems to not be in a hurry at all. Rolling his eyes, Dean pops the trunk to get his and Benny’s bags along with the first aid kit, shutting the trunk with his elbow and ambling towards the main door that leads into the house.

It’s a little rancher and very modest. There are no decorations anywhere, only furniture for function. Four bedrooms, a guest and a master bath, and a fully stocked and functional kitchen. Dean deposits their duffel bags on the dining room table and then sets the first aid kit on the counter, moving to the sink to wash his hands. Jack disappears into the bathroom and with wet hands Dean manhandles Benny into a chair at the table, frowning.

“Where’d you get shot?” Dean asks.

Benny shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, brother. It’s fine. Just a graze. Gotta shower up an’ I’ll be good to go.”

Dean feels his patience wearing thin, the adrenaline leaving his body and being slowly replaced with irritation. “At least let me take a look, man.”

“No,” Benny snaps. His canines look a little sharper, a little whiter. He closes his mouth shut with a click, looking away moodily. “Call the boss.”

Throwing his hands up in the air, Dean stalks out of the kitchen. He pulls his burner phone from his pocket and hits speed dial number one, lifting the device to his ear. He ends up at the sliding door that leads out to a completely dead and barren backyard, resting his elbow against the door jamb and hanging his head. 

Castiel picks up on the first ring. “Hello, Dean.”

“We got ‘im,” Dean says.

“Good. Are you hurt?” 

Dean frowns. “Benny is, but he won’t let me patch him up.” 

“Do not worry about Benny,” Castiel says idly. “He will take care of himself.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth, straightening. His ears have the faintest ring in them from the little explosions and gunfire. “What’s the deal with the kid, Cas?” 

“He is important to me,” Castiel says easily. 

“He, uh,” Dean glances over his shoulder. Jack has come out of the bathroom freshly showered and is wearing clothes borrowed from Benny’s duffel. They’re huge on him. He’s curled up on the couch with a throw blanket, eyes closed, looking peaceful as an angel. Benny must have gone into the bathroom after him, because Dean no longer sees him. Quieting his voice slightly, Dean presses his forehead against the glass door, staring down at his muddied boots. “...looks a lot like you, Cas.”

Castiel gives a small hum of agreement, but doesn’t say anything else about it. “Rest. The house is stocked with food and amenities. I will see you soon.”

“Cas…” Dean tries. He’s unsure why Jack’s presence is unsettling him so much. 

“I am happy you are safe, Dean,” Castiel says, honest gratitude in his voice. It throws Dean off guard. “Goodnight.” 

The line goes dead. 

Dean stares at the phone in his hand, closes his fingers tightly around it, and lightly hits the glass door with his knuckles in frustration. Straightening, he turns towards where Jack is apparently snoozing on the couch. Sighing, Dean runs a hand through his hair and then walks over to the couch, reaching out to gently nudge Jack’s shoulder.

“Hey, kid. Should probably sleep in a bed.” 

Jack’s eyes open, and Dean’s breath gets caught in his throat. They’re exactly like Castiel’s. Jack offers the smallest of crooked smiles, one Dean knows well, and then he nods as he shifts to stand, keeping the blanket wrapped around him. “Thank you, Dean. You should, too.” Jack ambles off down the hallway towards a bedroom, leaving Dean alone in the living room.

He’s dirty and muddy so he chooses to not sit on the couch. He takes residence in the chair that Benny had been sitting in, resting his elbows on the kitchen table and putting his face in his hands. Deep breaths.

In.

Out.

The bathroom door opens. Dean turns his head to look at Benny, who is scrubbed clean of blood and wearing sleep clothes. Dean has never seen him outside of jeans and an overcoat. He looks… healthy. As far as Dean can see, there are no wounds on his body. No bandages anywhere. 

Not even a scrape.

“You take the master suite, brother,” Benny says amiably as he moves to the table. He grabs his duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder, smiling warmly at Dean. “Y’did good tonight.” 

Dean nods reflexively. He watches Benny go down the hallway as well, and then Dean extracts himself from the chair with sheer force of will, rather than want. He grabs his own bag and walks mechanically down the hallway to find the master bedroom; once inside he shuts the door, looking around. Another room for function, not fashion. A queen size bed in the middle, one dresser, a closet, and a door leading to the bathroom. That’s where Dean heads, putting his duffel bag on the floor, rooting through it for his sleep clothes. The shower is stocked with essentials and Dean turns the water on as hot as he can stand it, tipping his head back into the spray. 

What is this emotion?

He thinks it’s an adrenaline drop, but he’s unsure if that’s actually a thing. He feels exhausted, emotionally and physically. He hadn’t even seen any of the action. 

What he had seen, though, was an injured Benny and a scared kid being chased out a forest by road flares and AK-47’s. 

Swallowing thickly, Dean starts lathering himself up. Everything is unscented, which he appreciates. He’s on a bit of an overload. He reflects on the night, from beginning to end, and tries to pinpoint why he’s feeling so… off. 

Benny.

Something about Benny.

His brain flashes back to Benny’s departing words; _“You make me proud, y’hear?”_ At the time, Dean had thought Benny was referring to the future - to do a good job, to follow in his footsteps and teachings. But the more Dean thinks about it, the more he reviews Benny’s face in his mind… he realizes that Benny was telling him that, at that moment in time, Dean makes him _proud_.

It was a goodbye and a hello wrapped into one, simple phrase.

Dean covers his mouth. He feels bile rising up in the back of his throat, his stomach churning unpleasantly. 

Had this been a suicide mission that Benny narrowly escaped? 

Breathing heavily, Dean tries to push down the panic swirling in his gut. It’s been seven months and the gravity of his situation is finally settling into the nooks and crannies of his brain. People _die_ in the mafia. Lucifer is snatching men off the streets for who knows what; and he’s not asking for a ransom, which has Castiel alluding to the thought that he is _killing_ his hostages, but Castiel hasn’t outright said it. Won’t outright say it.

So fucking _stupid_. Dean is so fucking _stupid_. 

He braces his hands on the wall of the shower. The water is starting to cool a bit, but he’s trying to get his racing heart under control. Deep breaths.

In.

Out.

Dean shuts off the shower and grabs a towel off of the rack, drying himself with stilted movements. He doesn’t look at his reflection in the mirror. He dresses in his pajama pants and a soft tee and then moves back out into the bedroom, looking around at the plain space. His heart is still squeezing uncomfortably in his chest. He looks at the bed, then at the door, and then crawls under the blankets with anxiety buzzing through his veins. 

Sleep overtakes him like a current. 

\--

“Dean.” 

Fourteen year old Dean glances up from where he and eleven year old Sam are pitching the tent. Dean is holding the stakes steady while Sam carefully hammers them into place - they’ve done this enough times that Dean knows Sam will never miss. John Winchester comes through the trees carrying a bundle of wood, setting it down next to the rock ring they’ve designated as their fire pit. 

“What’s the first rule?” John asks, voice gruff.

“Set up the perimeter,” Dean replies automatically. John lofts a brow. Dean looks back at him, challenging. “Which I did, sir.”

“After setting the perimeter did you double check your lines?” John asks. 

Now Dean feels his confidence slipping. “... No, sir.” 

“Go check ‘em, boy.” John instructs. He crouches next to the fire pit, starting to snap branches and twigs for kindling. 

Dean stands and brushes off his knees, ignoring Sam’s slightly piteous glance. He walks the perimeter of their campsite, checking the lines of salt in the underbrush; after about ten paces he sees the broken part of the circle and he frowns, feeling anxiety creeping up his spine. 

John appears at his elbow, resting a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Don’t dwell on the mistake, son. Fix it and move on, and be sure never to repeat it.” 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says glumly. John hands him the bag of salt and Dean carefully pours it out, crouching so he doesn’t use too much. He continues walking around the circle and when he doesn’t see any more breaks he puts the bag of salt next to the fire John is currently stoking to life, glancing over to where Sam is trying to get the rain fly over the top of the tent.

Dean moves to help him - the kid is already sprouting like a freaking weed, but it’s hard to get the fly on the tent alone. Sam sends him a small, grateful smile, and they get it fastened down quickly. John has lawn chairs set around the fire and they all three sit down, the sun starting to set through the trees, the humid Texas summer night cooling by the minute.

It’s silent, save for the ambient noises of the woods around them. In the summer John takes the boys camping every weekend without fail. He teaches them how to hunt, fish, and navigate the wild. He teaches them to rely on each other, protect each other, and work as a team. Sam is only rebellious when it cuts into his time with his friends (during the school year his nose is in the books, and when summer comes around Sam makes up a lot of lost time with his pals) but for the most part, when he’s not being a moody brat, he listens to John’s teachings. 

Dean has always followed everything to a T. The perfect little soldier. 

The fire roars to life and John puts a cooking grate over the flames, fishing a pot out of a canvas bag. At least they eat decently while camping - Dean has learned that if he premakes certain foods that can be stored in tupperware and taste good reheated, John is happy to eat it. Better than pork and beans, especially when they all have to share a tent. Tonight’s meal is homemade chicken noodle soup - more chicken-y than noodle-y - and Dean grabs the food bag to pull out some dinner rolls, resting them on the grate to get toasty while the soup heats up. 

They eat in silence. They don’t really talk much when they camp, aside from whatever the lesson of the day is with John. Neither Dean nor Sam have ever really asked John what, exactly, the purpose of these trips are; they range from boringly average, to borderline strange. This weekend John is going to teach them how to make their own bullets. A task easier done in the basement of their home, a task Dean has walked in on his dad doing plenty of times. But John wants them to learn how to make them on the fly with limited resources, and Dean figures that maybe his dad is turning into one of those doomsday preppers. 

Preparing for the worst. 

The worst comes in the form of Dean and Sam going out on their own the following morning. Loaded with rock salt shells and bullets of their own making, John told them to find an animal to track, kill, and bring back to camp. 

Dean had been pretty sure they were hunting a rabbit for the past hour, but Sam, the nerd, pointed out that all signs insinuated a very large squirrel. Pretty disappointing. Dean’s never eaten a squirrel before, and he’s not too keen on trying. By Dean’s measurements they’re about two klicks away from camp and shouldn’t go any further. They’re walking tight together, Dean taking the lead, Sam on swivel behind him. Both are armed with shotguns, a backpack slung over Dean’s shoulders. 

A branch snaps. 

They both freeze. 

Dean turns around to say something to Sam, only to see Sam’s eyes go wide in terror before he’s dragged down to the ground.

“Sam!” Dean yells in surprise.

“Dean-!” Sam is being dragged back by an invisible force, underbrush flying everywhere as he tries to grapple at the ground to anchor himself. 

No such luck. 

Dean takes off in a sprint after him, cocking his gun, but hesitating on firing. What the hell is dragging Sam away? He can’t see it, and he’s not stupid enough to shoot at Sam’s feet without seeing what’s holding him. Whatever is dragging Sam away is taking them farther from camp - Dean purses his lips and lets out a sharp whistle while he runs that echoes throughout the forest, knowing that it’ll echo around and reach their dad in a couple of seconds. 

Sam struggles to turn onto his back, kicking out with his free foot. Dean can see something moving under the brush of fallen leaves and twigs but can’t make anything out. Sam’s hand shoots out and he manages to grab a thick, low hanging branch, letting out a choked noise when he’s abruptly stopped. Whatever has his foot is still tugging violently and Dean stops up at Sam’s head, bringing the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and staring down the sight towards Sam’s feet. 

“Shoot it!” Sam yells.

“I can’t see it!” Dean snaps. 

Another violent tug and Sam’s fingers slip off of the branch, his gangly body careening down a steep hillside. Dean almost follows but skids to a stop when he sees the decline of the hill, heart thudding in his chest.

He doesn’t see Sam. 

Another tight whistle and Dean takes in a deep breath before careening down the hillside. His feet can’t find purchase, he’s slipping and sliding more than actually running, and comes close to falling on his face more than once. At the bottom of the hill he zeroes his eyes in on the ground around him, trying to find drag marks, track marks, anything- something catches his eye and he huffs out a little hysterical laugh, crouching down to touch some gold craft glitter smattered on a leaf. 

In his and Sam’s latest prank war, Sam had threatened to glitter Dean when he least expected it. Apparently that was going to be sometime this weekend. Relief floods him, knowing his brother - even in a time of great stress and fear - managed to leave him a bread crumb trail.

Glitter trail.

Same thing.

Dean follows the trail. It’s fucking brilliant. The gold catches the dappled rays of sunshine filtering through the canopy of the trees and leads to a little hovel in another hillside, where the glitter stops. Crouching down, Dean peers into the hole and sees nothing but darkness. He doesn’t have a flashlight on him so he stands up, pacing for a few seconds while he tries to work out what he can do. 

He crouches again and pulls his backpack off of his shoulders, unzipping it and rooting around inside. He pulls out two flares, a lighter, a knife, some empty shotgun shells, and a bit of gunpowder. He glances into the hole and doesn’t hear anything coming from inside, and while he hopes Sam is ok, part of him also hopes Sam is unconscious so he doesn’t have to deal with… whatever dragged him off. 

Letting out a short breath, Dean surveys the items he has to work with. 

His fingers work quickly, his brain trying to determine how he should measure things out. It’s a rough draft, and he should probably wait for John to show up for some sort of direction or clarification, but he _can’t_. Sam could be hurt, or worse. Dean’s fingers don’t even tremble as he pours the gunpowder into the shell, cutting slits into the bottom of the flare to get it to fit inside the open end of the casing. He pulls out some fishing wire and ties it securely together and then he stands, leaving his backpack on the ground, slinging the rifle over his shoulder by the strap. Grabbing the other flare, he strikes it against his leg to light it, and then stares into the hovel. It’s half his size and who knows how deep so he bends at the waist, entering before he second guesses himself. 

He’s gotta get Sam.

The hovel goes about three yards down before veering off to the left. The red light and noise from the flare is doing everything it can to announce his presence, but Dean knows better than to go traipsing into a dark hole. He holds his little art project in his other hand, keeping it carefully away from the sparks dropping from the flare, and tries not to inhale too deeply - this hovel smells musty, moldy, and a bit like rotting flesh. 

It’s quiet. The road flare is roaring softly, but other than that, Dean strains his ears for anything else. After a few more yards the ceiling of the tunnel raises and Dean straightens with it, rolling out his shoulders. The path forks, and he rolls his eyes in frustration.

“Oh, come _on_...” he mutters under his breath. He looks down on the ground and passes the road flare back and forth, and then grins when a bit of gold glitter catches the light. Thank God for their stupid prank wars. Dean follows the trail to the right and finally ends up in a small cavern; he glances around the perimeter before his eyes fall on Sam, unconscious and leaning up against a wooden post.

Rushing forward, the flare dies as soon as Dean reaches his brother’s side. Of course. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark and then he tosses the dead flare to the side, that hand now reaching to shake Sam’s shoulder.

“Sammy,” Dean hisses softly. “Sammy, wake up.”

Dazedly, Sam blinks his eyes open. “Dean?” 

Dean lifts a finger to his lips. “Shh. I memorized the way out. Can you walk?” 

Sam shifts a little, then winces and shakes his head. “My ankle.” 

Of course this wouldn’t be easy. Heart thudding against his chest, Dean reaches for Sam, helping him up onto his feet. Sam’s still not as tall as Dean yet but he’s getting there, and thank fuck he’s skinny as hell because it doesn’t take much for Dean to hold him up at all. 

Sam glances down to the craftwork in Dean’s hand, nose wrinkling in confusion. “What’s that?” 

Dean flashes him a grin to cover up his nerves, “Reinforcement. Did you see what grabbed you?” 

They start shuffling towards the tunnel. Sam shakes his head, “I couldn’t see well, it was dark. Looked like a man.” 

Dean frowns. “But why couldn’t we see it out in the daylight?” 

Sam shakes his head, shuddering. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. Let’s get out of here.” 

Dean wholeheartedly agrees. Only the sound of their shuffling footsteps resonates off of the dank walls, Dean’s free hand holding onto his little creation like a lifeline. The hand he has around Sam’s shoulder holds the lighter. It’s still quiet - deathly quiet - and when they reach the fork in the tunnel they both crouch so they can fit. It’s awkward, especially with Sam’s bum foot and the barrel of Dean’s rifle occasionally bumping the warped ceiling, and Dean thinks he can see the light at the end of the tunnel when a weird raspy noise rattles from somewhere behind them.

Dean’s heart stalls in his chest. Sam tenses. They try to hasten their pace, but it’s hard with limited mobility. Another wheezing rattle and then Sam’s body jerks, a yelp leaving his lips as whatever is following them grabs him again. 

“No-!” Dean shouts, reaching to grab Sam by his jacket with the hand holding the lighter. Sam’s hands fly up to grab at Dean’s forearm, fear in his eyes, his bad leg being yanked out behind him. Dean looks over Sam’s shoulder to see a shrouded figure - it resembles the shape of a human, but that’s where the similarities stop. The head is misshapen, the body distorted, and fear bubbles up in Dean’s gut. 

He squashes it down immediately, John’s lessons blaring in his head (“Never show fear, Dean. No matter the circumstance. _Never_ show fear.”, as well as “Protect your brother. One day, he will be all you have.”) loud enough for him to bring up his art project. “Hold on, Sammy,” he instructs his brother, who digs his fingers so painfully into Dean’s forearm they’re likely to bruise. Dean lets go of Sam’s jacket, and then makes eye contact with his brother. “Close your eyes!” 

Sam squinches his eyes shut as Dean flicks the lighter beneath his chin. He lifts up his creation and lights up the road flare, both brothers recoiling at the explosion of blue light, and then Dean moves. He grabs Sam’s coat again and yanks him forward with all of his strength, causing his brother to collapse into him. At the same time Dean takes a large step forward, right into range of the weird figure holding onto Sam, and he winds up his arm and drives the road flare directly into what he thinks it’s the creature’s chest with everything he has. 

An ear piercing shriek echoes through the tunnels. Dean sees a flash of a ghastly, horrid looking excuse of a human face before the road flare disappears into sick, sticky flesh. The creature stumbles back, wailing loudly, and Dean has both arms around Sam now, rushing towards the exit of the tunnel. He’s counting down in his head, pretty sure they have time to leave the cave - he gets to four and a small pop of an explosion sounds, those warbling screams suddenly coming to a halt. The blast isn’t huge, but it’s enough to make Dean physically throw Sam out of the tunnel to the safety of outside. Dean falls to the ground and army crawls out of the hovel quickly, turning back just in time to see the hole collapse in on itself. 

Both boys stare at the smoking mound in disbelief, breath coming out erratically. 

“Boys.”

John’s voice causes them both to yelp and scramble - Sam cries out when his ankle twists and Dean immediately reaches for him to comfort him, his heart still thudding with adrenaline. 

“What happened?” John asks, crouching down so he can reach out and hike up Sam’s pant leg. 

“Something- something grabbed me!” Sam practically squeaks. “And took me to this weird lair thing. I thought it was a person. But it was- dad it was so _weird_ looking. And it was dark and I didn’t-” 

“Sammy left a trail for me to follow,” Dean cuts in. Sam’s hysterics are understandable, but John looks like he’s losing his patience waiting for a real explanation. “I tracked him to a tunnel system that went underground. When we were coming out of the tunnel the… thing attacked us. I think I killed it.” 

John lifts a brow in Dean’s direction as he presses into Sam’s ankle, checking his injury. “Thing?” 

Dean licks his lips. “I don’t- I don’t know what it was, sir.”

“How did you kill it?” 

“Dean made a _bomb_ ,” Sam says with ill-concealed wonder. 

There’s a shimmer of pride in John’s eyes. “How did you do that?”

“Road flare, gun powder, and an empty shotgun shell,” Dean says. “I didn’t even know if it would work, but it was all I had.” 

John stands, holding his hand out to Sam, who takes the help to get up. John then shifts so Sam can climb onto his back, his arms looping under Sam’s skinny legs, and John sends Dean what might be the softest smile he’s ever received. Kind of fucked up that Dean is getting that kind of affection after _killing_ something that may or may not have been a person. “You did good, Dean.”

Dean drinks the praise like water. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Let’s go back to camp. You boys deserve to relax a little.” 

Sam wraps his arms around John’s chest, pressing his face into the back of the man’s neck to hide his smile. Dean scrubs his own smile off of his mouth, trailing after his dad and brother to head back to the campsite. A close call for both him and Sam - they’ve never been in such a dangerous situation before, but they handled it, and John Winchester was _proud_.

Dean really was the perfect little soldier.

\--

Waking up with a jolt, Dean sits bolt upright, breath coming out uneven. He’s sweaty and clammy and he rubs his face furiously a few times, trying to scrub away the image of that weird creature. It’s not the worst dream he’s ever had, but it’s been a long time since he’s thought about that weekend in the woods. The stress of tonight must really be getting to him. Lying back, he stares at the ceiling and tries to regulate his breathing. 

Now, Dean is a grown ass man. He ain’t afraid of shit. But he knows when to man up and accept when he’s feeling a little weak, and in instances like that, he has no shame (well, maybe a little shame) in seeking out his brother for comfort. It started when they were kids; Sam would have nightmares about the mother he never knew, seeing her die a violent death every time, and would crawl into Dean’s bed in the middle of the night, weeping silently. Dean would always wrap up his baby brother in his arms and hold him quietly until he fell asleep again, offering comfort the only way he knows how. 

The trend carried through their childhood and into their teen years.

After John died, the physical comfort between the two of them dwindled. Dean had hardened reflexively, knowing that he needed to step into the role of being Sam’s caretaker. Sam stopped crawling into Dean’s bed. Dean’s brotherly role shifted fiercely. The only physical comfort he offered came in the form of shoulder pats and noogies, and Sam seemed to grow used to the distance. 

Doesn’t mean Dean never felt guilty about it. 

Nights like tonight, Dean really misses sharing a bed with his brother. He misses the weight at his side and he misses the unfailing knowledge that no matter what, they had each other’s backs, through thick and thin. Being that both of them are too old for that shit (and too big to comfortably fit in the same bed), Dean would settle for something stupid like holding his hand, or maybe even a long hug. 

In this moment Dean has both the psychological and physical need to be close to someone. 

He gets out from under the covers, a decision rooted firmly in his mind.

The first door he opens in the hallway is to an empty bedroom. The next shows him Jack curled up on his bed, brown hair sticking up in a million familiar ways. The third room is where Benny is, and when Dean cracks open the door Benny is sitting upright against the headboard of the bed, book in hand. He doesn’t look tired at all. He does, however, look surprised when he glances up to see Dean hovering awkwardly in the doorway. 

“Dean,” Benny says softly, voice tinged with concern. 

“Can I-” Dean licks his lips and swallows. The feeling he gets when he sees Benny is very familiar to the feeling he gets when he sees Sam. “Uh. M’not… really tired.” A lie. Dean is fucking exhausted and he feels like a dead man walking. Avoiding a panic attack had taken a lot out of him, and after that unsettling dream, Dean is pretty sure he could fall asleep standing up.

Thankfully Benny isn’t a man that needs words to communicate. He shifts on the queen size bed and offers a small smile towards Dean, and then returns his gaze to his book. Good. Dean doesn’t want Benny to watch him crumble. Moving forward, Dean climbs onto the bed and lies down, heart thudding with embarrassment, cheeks hot. Benny isn’t under the covers so Dean shifts until he can get under them, and then he pulls the second pillow under his head as he burrows down. 

Benny is here. 

So is Dean.

As he settles down, listening to Benny’s breathing and the gentle turning of the pages, Dean feels himself relax for the first time all night. 

Benny clicks the bedside lamp a few times until it’s on the dimmest setting. Dean closes his eyes. 

Exhaustion wins, and the last thought he has before falling asleep is on a loop.

Alive.

They are both alive.

\--

Dean wakes up alone. Benny’s side of the bed is undisturbed, and Dean respects the fact that after he passed out Benny probably went to sleep in a different room. He doesn’t blame him, either. Sitting up and stretching, Dean rubs the back of his neck idly and gets out of bed, padding on bare feet over soft carpet as he leaves the bedroom. He feels good - and he knows he only feels this good because he sought out some much-needed comfort last night. He detours to the bathroom briefly, and when he enters the kitchen he sees Jack sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and the funnies section of the newspaper spread around him. Benny isn’t around, so he starts opening cupboards and the fridge to poke around and see what he can find. 

He’s pleasantly surprised at all of the fresh food he finds stocked. Castiel must have had someone come sometime yesterday to get everything in order. With the fridge propped open in one hand Dean looks over his shoulder towards Jack, who is a bit more focused on reading the comics than actually eating his cereal, and then clears his throat softly.

“Hey, kid.” 

Jack glances up, his head tilting slightly. Just like Castiel. 

“Want an omelette?” 

The smile that breaks out on Jack’s features reveals a gap tooth and dimples and Dean feels his heart soften just a smidge. “Thank you, Dean. I would like that a lot.” 

Nodding stiffly, Dean starts pulling out what he needs. He washes his hands at the sink, grabs a knife and cutting board, and then starts the routine task of throwing food together. He’s got a good recipe memorized with muscle memory to boot, so he allows his mind to blank out a bit while he cooks.

“Where’s Benny?” Dean asks over the sound of the pepper grinder. 

“Mmm,” Jack sounds thoughtful. “Sleeping, I believe.”

Dean purses his lips. He hasn’t been with Benny in the morning for a long time - they always seem to meet in the afternoon or night, anymore - so he doesn’t have a grasp on his early day habits. He turns down the burner a bit and wanders down the hallway towards the master suite, opening the door and peeking inside. Benny is in a lump on the bed, covered in blankets and snoring like a beast. Grinning to himself Dean enters the room and lifts a foot, kicking at the mattress to jostle the sleeping man.

“Hey.” 

Benny grumbles in reply, still half asleep.

“Y’want breakfast? I’m makin’ omelettes.” 

“Fruit,” Benny grunts. 

Dean arches a brow. “You sure? I’m makin’ Jack some eggs, too. Should get some protein in you, man. Last night was rough.”

“Fruit,” Benny repeats, rolling over so he can look at Dean with sleepy eyes. Then, “Scrambled eggs.” 

Dean snickers a little. “Alright bud. Be ready in ten.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him. While he’s amused at Benny’s morning grump, he also feels a little bad, since it’s probably his fault Benny is so tired in the first place. Infiltrating a complex, rescuing a hostage, and then dealing with Dean’s insecurities… Yep. He probably didn’t have a restful night at all.

Back in the kitchen Jack has washed out his cereal bowl and put it in the rack to dry, face still in the comics as he jiggles his knee under the kitchen table where he’s sitting. Dean fixes Jack’s plate and puts it down in front of him, an intense feeling of domesticity flashing through him before he stomps it down and returns to the fridge so he can start putting together a fruit bowl for Benny. Habit from working at his cafe has him slicing up cantaloupe and honeydew meticulously, the apple slices looking like rose petals as he dots the bowl with blueberries and drizzles it in honey. Simple scrambled eggs are easy to whip up and Benny appears at the same time Dean sets the food down on the table, the blond man looking thankful as he sits down. Only after making sure Jack and Benny are tucking in does Dean make his own omelette, loading it up with veggies and meat. He joins the others at the table and eats silently, chewing slowly, trying to stay in the moment and not let his mind wander to his shitty emotional breakdown. 

“So,” Dean decides to break the silence. He clears his gruff throat. “We just playin’ house all day til we can go home?” 

Benny sits back in his chair, nodding as he chews on a piece of cantaloupe. “Pretty much. Boss’ll let us know if we can head out early.” 

Dean nods, his gaze sliding over to Jack. Jack is dutifully eating his omelette, but his eyes are still on the comics, and Dean frowns a little. “Hey- if we were able to get this kid out, what’s stopping us from getting the other hostages? The old dudes.”

Jack glances up at Dean, his expression sweetly patient. “Lucifer kills them as soon as he brings them into the compound.”

Dean’s blood runs cold. 

Benny shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Jack straightens a little, reaching out to touch Dean’s elbow gently. “Their deaths were quick.”

Dean shuffles out of Jack’s reach and pushes his half-empty plate a few inches away from himself. “Why’s he killin’ ‘em?” 

Jack’s head tilts slightly, and he looks towards Benny, who shakes his head.

A flash of irritation flares through Dean’s system, “What the fuck aren’t you guys tellin’ me? Jesus. I’m part of this team too, y’know.” 

“It is Castiel’s job to tell you,” Jack says, voice calm as ever. Except for their initial meeting last night, Jack fleeing from bullets and fire, the kid exudes nothing but tranquility and… sweetness. It irks Dean. 

“Right. He don’t tell me nothin’,” Dean grouses. He’s lost his appetite. He stands up from the table and grabs his plate, tossing the leftovers into the trash. He starts cleaning up the kitchen, running hot water and grabbing the soap and a sponge, shoulders hunched as he focuses on not throwing a plate on the floor and smashing it into a million little pieces.

Apparently he’s still on edge from last night.

Benny appearing at his side almost makes him jump out of his skin. Dean whips a glare towards the other man, whose gaze is a lot softer than Dean personally thinks it needs to be. “You did good last night.” 

Dean clenches his jaw, turning back to the sink. 

“The reason boss hasn’t said anything is because we’re still not sure what we’re up against,” Benny explains. “Jack is the missing piece we’ve been searching for.”

Dean’s teeth will crack if he clenches his jaw any harder. Under his breath, just for Benny’s ears, he says, “How do we know we can trust him?” 

Benny puts a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder. Stupidly, it grounds Dean, some of the tension bleeding from his body. “We ain’t got no choice at this point, brother.” 

Dean’s gaze travels towards Jack, who is now nibbling on a piece of honeydew he nabbed from Benny’s bowl. It’s a little hard for Dean to believe that this kid is going to be the catalyst of this whole thing, but… something about him has Dean both on edge and hopeful. 

Dean’s gaze meets Benny’s. “If he does _anything_ wayside…” 

Jack accidentally knocks the bowl off of the table, the dish clattering and fruit spilling everywhere. He fumbles to try and catch it, fails, and then laughs brightly at himself as he kneels on the floor to start cleaning up with a napkin. Dean watches him, those emotions warring in his chest, and then turns back towards the sink. 

“I’m not a fuckin’ babysitter.” 

Benny just chuckles, grabbing a wet cloth to help Jack pick up. “Amen, brother.”

\--

Seven hours later, after a lunch consisting of gourmet sandwiches (Jack asking about a million questions about Dean’s cafe) and a few movies on the television in the living room, Dean’s burner phone rings. He could question why Castiel is calling him and not Benny, but a part of Dean… _needs_ to hear Castiel. Needs to get the green light from him. 

He’s well aware of the fact that Castiel had taken Dean’s safety into consideration leagues above Benny’s safety last night, and it’s a weird thread to cling onto, but here he is.

“Hey,” Dean greets. 

“Hello, Dean. Are you well?” 

Dean shifts on the couch, resisting a sarcastic remark. “M’ fine. What’s the update?” 

“You may return home,” Castiel says. “Lucifer’s compound has been dismantled and he is on the move. We have time to regroup and come up with a new plan.” 

Dean’s gaze slides towards Jack. “Where do you want the kid?” 

“He is not a child, Dean,” Castiel says, mild exasperation in his voice.

“Sure he is.” Dean gripes. 

“You will be escorting him to my home.”

There’s a pause as Dean considers this. He’s never been to Castiel’s house - much like Dean has kept the man and Benny at an arm’s length from his own home, Castiel has done the same. This is either a good thing, or a bad thing, that Castiel is inviting him over. “A’right.”

“Benny knows the way. I will see you soon.”

The line goes dead and Dean rolls his eyes, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. “Guy’s got really shitty phone etiquette.”

Benny just grins in agreement. 

It doesn’t take them more than fifteen minutes to get packed up to leave. Dean destroys the burner phone under the heel of his boot and tosses it into the fire place, and then they pile into the Impala. Benny’s directions are easy and after about an hour and a half, once again on the back roads, they enter the Blue Hills Reservation area. They drive through acres and acres of trees and then Benny points to a hidden dirt road, visible only when he points it out. Dean almost misses the turn. His car rumbles down the overgrown drive and after about two hundred yards the trees clear to reveal a quaint colonial style home, dark blue in color with white trim and impeccable landscaping in the front. 

Dean parks the car and gets out, looking over the house. It’s… not what he was expecting. Like- he was definitely expecting something rural and hidden, because Castiel seems the type. But this looks pretty… quaint, and Dean is surprised. It’s clear Castiel takes good care of his home and the gardens in the front. 

A lot of love lives here, and Dean is a little unsure what to think about that. 

Benny and Jack are already heading up the steps to the porch. Dean trails behind them, the sun setting and the cover of trees making it darker much faster. The porch light turns on and then the ornate front door swings open, Castiel standing there with a subdued smile on his features. 

“Castiel!” Jack greets. He practically leaps up the steps, moving towards Castiel for a warm, familial hug.

Those weird feelings bubble up in Dean’s chest at the sight. He averts his gaze.

“Jack,” Castiel says fondly. He sounds warmer than Dean has ever heard him. “You look well.” 

When Dean glances up Castiel is looking past Benny towards Dean where Dean has stopped, his expression still soft. Benny passes by Castiel and nudges Jack inside the home, leaving Castiel and Dean on the front porch, swathed in the orange glow of the porch light. 

“Dean,” Castiel greets. 

Dean cuts his gaze away again, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“I am…” Castiel trails off, causing Dean to glance up at him once more. Castiel’s brows are knit slightly, the corners of his mouth downturned, blue eyes expressive. “...I am happy to see you safe.” 

Dean shrugs, dropping his gaze again. “Yeah.” Silence settles between them. A soft breezes drives a chill through Dean’s limbs and he shivers involuntarily. Dean says, “Benny coulda died.” 

“But he didn’t.” 

“I coulda died.”

“But you didn’t.” 

Dean’s fingers flex in the pockets of his pants, those warring emotions threatening to pour over. He’s standing on the bottom step and staring at Castiel’s bare feet, taking note of the fact that Castiel is as dressed down as he’s ever seen him, wearing grey athletic pants and a white long sleeved shirt. 

“What are we doin’ this for, Cas?” Dean asks. 

“To save innocent people.” 

“Why me?” 

The sound of Castiel’s bare feet on the wood causes Dean to lift his gaze. Castiel descends the steps one at a time, four of them total, until he’s standing on the step just above Dean’s. Dean feels tiny. Castiel seems huge. He reaches out, fingers hesitant - and Dean doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t move, so Castiel gently slides his fingers down Dean’s cheekbones, before he cups the man’s jaw and tilts his head up so their eyes can meet fully. Dean’s breath hitches in his chest at the sorrowful fondness on Castiel’s features.

“I need you, Dean Winchester.” 

Dean’s skin is buzzing where Castiel’s fingers are touching him. 

“Only you.” 

Dean swallows around the emotions in the throat. This has always been bigger than repaying a debt for Sammy. With every interaction with Castiel, with every praise from Benny, Dean has been able to see past all of it to try and grasp at the roots of the situation. Every time he holds a gun, every time he pulls the trigger, shakes down a guy on the street and makes good on his threats… 

Dean thought he had been losing himself. 

Standing here in the cool winter night, Castiel’s fingers warm on his skin, gaze heavy as a winter coat and washing away any leftover anxieties from last night, Dean realizes… 

He’s found himself. 

He’s given himself. 

And now, past the point of no return, Dean is sure he’ll never look over his shoulder again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: it should go without saying that i have no idea how to make a road flare bomb, but basic chemistry tells me dean's contraption was gonna go 'boom' no matter what lol  
> 


	8. So Get This-

Dean doesn’t remember falling asleep. After getting to Castiel’s home last night true exhaustion had overtaken him once more, and the last thing he can recall is getting comfortable in one of Castiel’s recliners wrapped up in what looked like a hand-knit blanket with no discernable pattern and multiple bright colors. Presently his eyes open because the sunlight is filtering through the soft curtains hanging in the living room, warming his skin and rousing his senses. Smacking his lips tiredly he shifts and drops a hand down to unrecline the chair, huffing a little at the sudden action. Rubbing his eyes, a little more awake now, he looks over at the couch where Benny is snoring softly, noting that he doesn’t see Castiel or Jack anywhere. 

He can’t remember the last time sunshine alone woke him up. There’s a niggling in the back of his mind telling him he’s currently awake because of something else…

“Wake up bitches!” Comes a woman’s muffled voice, followed by knocking on the front door of the house. “Rise and shine!”

Grunting, Dean picks up his gun off of the coffee table and tucks it into the waistband of his pants out of habit. He meanders to the door, only half-alert, socked feet sliding on the pristine hardwoods, and then pulls the curtain aside to peer through the window of the door. 

Fiery red hair, bug-eyed sunglasses, and a LOTR hoodie gives Dean all the information he needs to realize that this is Charlie.

Unlocking the deadbolt, the handle, and the chain, Dean opens the door and offers a sleepy smile. “Mornin’.”

“Oooh,” Charlie’s eyes rake up and down Dean’s form. He’s in dark jeans and a black henley and mismatched socks, clearly sleep-rumpled. She grins, meeting his eyes. “You must be Dean.” 

Dean quirks a grin, already deciding he likes her. Which is a feat, considering normally he wakes up as grumpy as a hibernating bear. “And you must be Charlie.”

“The one and only!” She bustles past Dean, a suitcase rolling along behind her. “Is everyone seriously asleep?”

Dean finally looks at his watch as he swings the door shut. “It’s seven-thirty.”

“Castiel is usually awake by now,” Charlie says curiously. She goes into the living room and swats at Benny’s legs until he begrudgingly gives up space for her to sit on the couch. He doesn’t surface from the pile of blankets. Now comfortable, she opens up her suitcase and pulls out her laptop. She sends a sunny smile to Dean. “Anyway- nice to meet you. Give me your phone.” She holds out her hand palm up.

Dean arches a brow. His duffel bag is on the floor next to the recliner so he bends and digs his personal phone out of one of the pockets, leaning across the coffee table to hand it to an expectant Charlie.

He doesn’t have a passcode lock (she arches a brow at him and he merely shrugs in reply) so she swipes it open and starts doing… whatever, becoming engrossed in her task. 

“I’ll uh,” Dean stands up and rubs his palms over his thighs. “Get Cas?” 

“You probably shouldn’t,” Charlie says without looking up. She finishes whatever she was doing on the phone and then holds it back out to Dean, still smiling. “He loves pancakes.”

Taking his phone back, Dean slides it into his pocket and gives Charlie a quizzical look.

Charlie raises both of her brows. “For breakfast.”

Dean squints.

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Make him breakfast, you idiot.”

“Why would I do that?” Dean asks, slightly incredulous.

“You made breakfast for Benny and Jack yesterday,” she says knowingly. How does she know that?

Dean throws his hands up in the air. Christ, the whole world is bugged. “So? I had to feed myself, so I fed them.” 

Charlie leers, brows bouncing on her forehead. “You don’t wanna feed Castiel?”

Dean gets defensive, folding his arms over his chest. “Never said that.”

“So _I’m_ just saying,” Charlie leans back a little, pulling her laptop onto her knees, “you should cook Castiel breakfast.” 

Dean stares.

“Pancakes.” She clarifies.

“She won’t give up, brother,” Benny grumbles from under his blanket cocoon.

“Fine, whatever,” Dean grouses. “Gotta call Sammy anyway.” He leaves the living room and finds the kitchen, turning on the lights and opening the venetian blinds on the french doors that lead outside to a beautiful backyard, the green grass covered with shimmering dew. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the onslaught of morning sun and then glances around the kitchen. 

Wow. 

“Gourmet as hell,” Dean mutters under his breath. But of course- the mafia pays well, right? Or whatever. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Sam, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he moves to the fridge. He’s surprised it’s not one of the smart units.

“Dean,” Sam greets, sounding too chipper for so early. “You’re up early.”

Dean grunts in reply. “Callin’ to check in.” He pulls out the carton of eggs and a half gallon of milk, setting them on the island.

He can hear the smug smirk in his brother’s voice, “Things must be getting serious if you’ve been gone for three days.”

Dean only feels annoyance as he rounds up all of the dry ingredients for pancakes. He turns back to the fridge, pulling a roll of ground sausage and a block of cheese. “Shut up.” 

“You’re with Castiel, aren’t you?” 

Dean’s gut drops, the phone nearly falling when his shoulder goes lax. He quickly catches it, fingers dancing to avoid accidentally ending the call. “What?” 

He knows Sam is rolling his eyes. “I didn’t mean like that, but if you’re gonna act all guilty about it…” 

Dean bristles as he returns to the fridge to find some fruit for Benny, jamming the phone back in place. “It ain’t like that and you know it.”

“Just seems a little odd to have such a … close relationship to a... _potential investor_ ,” Sam says. Uh oh. Kid’s too smart for his own good.

“This comin’ from the guy who is _dating_ the dude that gave him a ten thousand dollar loan.” 

“I can at least _come out_ and say it,” Sam quips.

Dean rolls his eyes before he closes them tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Y’know, I was callin’ to check in because I’m your brother and I figured you’d be worried about where I been the past few days.” 

“You’re a big boy, Dean.” Sam says.

Dean frowns. “You weren’t concerned.” It’s a statement, not a question, and it sorta hurts to say.

“I knew you were with Castiel,” Sam says, slow. Like Dean’s stupid or something. “And if something would’ve happened, Gabriel woulda heard.”

Dean is very, very close to pouting. “You didn’t even text me to ask where I was.” 

Sam now sounds amused when he says, “Aw, Dean. Is this gonna turn into a chick flick moment? Are you going to tell me about how you worry about _me_ when I’m gone for days on end?”

“I _do_ worry,” Dean snips, but there’s not a lot of heat behind his words. He pulls a mixing bowl from a cupboard and starts dumping ingredients into it, distracted by all of the insinuations in Sam’s words. Hinting that Dean is hiding something… _illicit_. Bleh.

“I know, Dean,” Sam says patiently. “And I worry too- you know, within reason.” 

Dean starts whisking the batter with a fork, huffing softly and deciding to drop it. Sam can be a little bitch if he wants. “How… are things going with Gabe?” 

“He seems a little stressed these past few days,” Sam says honestly. 

Dean knows why, but he keeps that knowledge to himself and bites his tongue. “It’ll pass. He’s a big shot lender an’ all, he’s probably got his plate full this time of year.” 

“Yeah,” Sam sounds a little distracted. “I just pulled up to the bookstore. When will you be home?”

“Not sure yet,” Dean answers honestly.

“You’ve been… _staying_ with Castiel?” Sam tries to sound nonchalant. It doesn’t work. 

“Good _bye_ , Sam.” Dean frees a hand to end the phone call and slide his phone back into the pocket of his pants. Some flour has spattered onto his shirt and he sighs, muttering “fuck it” to himself, finishing mixing the batter and setting the bowl aside. He had considered telling Sam about his dream, but hearing his brother’s voice all normal and cheery had done way more than getting one of his sensitive ‘It was just a dream and we’re fine, Dean’ talks. Incredible how even just talking to his brother about stupid shit manages to make him feel better. Even if he was being annoying. The normalcy of their bickering has helped put Dean back into good sorts.

The task of breakfast does good to focus him on being something other than annoyed. Ten minutes later he hears shuffling and glances up to see Castiel moving into the kitchen, looking sleep rumpled and slightly cranky. He’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a fairly ugly sweater, a blue fleece robe draped loosely over his frame and untied. It’s incredibly inelegant and alien to Deans eyes, since he’s used to seeing Castiel wearing designer suits exclusively.

“Dean,” Castiel sounds mildly confused as he takes in his kitchen, which is currently in full swing with pancakes frying, sausage simmering, and the sound of Dean’s knife rhythmically chopping fruit. 

“Mornin’,” Dean says, falsely chipper, _just_ to be annoying. “Coffee?” 

Frowning, Castiel sits at the breakfast bar at the island on a stool, resting his palms on the surface. His tattoos seem darker against his skin in the soft morning light. He’s sans jewelry, sans suit - sans everything that makes him everything Dean knows him to be. It’s… bizarre. “Mmmn.” 

Dean blinks at him a few times and then gets to it, pouring a fresh cup from the pot he just brewed, sliding the mug over to Castiel. “Cream? Sugar?”

“ _Nyet_ ,” Castiel says, picking up the mug and bringing it to his lips. The coffee is probably scalding hot, but he takes a small sip, some tension leaving his body. “What are you doing?” His accent is thick with sleep.

“Apparently making you pancakes,” Dean says, like he himself is mystified as to why he’s in the kitchen.

Castiel frowns again, but doesn’t ask any more questions. He sips his coffee in silence while Dean moves around the kitchen, and the sound of their voices must inspire the rest of everyone to file in as well; first Charlie, who puts her laptop on the kitchen table and sits down in front of it. Then Benny, who takes his bowl of fruit silently and moves to sit opposite of Charlie. And then finally Jack, who takes a seat next to Castiel at the breakfast bar.

“Good morning,” Jack greets, the only one to really say anything at all.

Dean gives him a tense smile. “Hey, kid.” 

Jack beams, and then turns towards Castiel. He’s dressed similarly to Castiel, only his robe is tied tightly around his waist. “How very nice of Dean to make you pancakes.” 

Castiel’s weighty gaze rests on Dean. “Indeed.” 

Dean resists a squirm as he finishes stacking the pancakes on a serving plate. Castiel’s eyes are a weight pressing against his flesh. “Y’all can dish yourselves. I cooked, you do the rest.” The scrambled eggs are steaming in a bowl, the sausage patties on a paper towel-lined plate.

Charlie springs up immediately to start fixing herself a plate. “Looks good! Who knew you were such a little housewife?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but feels a bit lighter with Charlie’s teasing. “Why’d you tell me to make pancakes if you didn’t know I could do it?” 

She grins, shrugging. “Just wanted to see what would happen.”

Dean snorts in amusement. He leans his hip against the island opposite of Castiel while Charlie and Jack pile their plates with pancakes and eggs and sausage, that weird domestic feeling settling in his chest again. Castiel doesn’t move, and when Dean glances over at him, the man still has a slightly confused, thoughtful expression on his features.

“You uh, gonna eat?” Dean asks. 

Castiel’s gaze moves from the stack of pancakes up to Dean’s face. “ _Da_.”

“You gonna… dish?” Dean asks, slower.

Castiel responds by putting his steaming mug down as Jack returns to his seat next to him. Castiel looks sleepy and grumpy for all of three seconds and then he’s standing next to Dean, piling his plate high with pancakes and the sweet strawberry compote Dean had managed not to burn. He forgoes the eggs and the sausage patties and returns to his seat, settling down, and Dean catches the tiniest of pleased smiles on his lips before he starts eating.

That feeling in his chest blooms.

“Got it!” Charlie suddenly yells into the silence.

Dean clutches his heart, shooting Charlie a glare. “Jesus Christ.” 

Charlie claps her hands and then shoves some eggs into her mouth. She chews, swallows, and then grins in satisfaction. “The bug Jack put on Lucifer powered up last night when he left range. I’ve got him in my sights.” 

Castiel turns slightly on his stool to regard Charlie, “Where is he?” 

“They must have fled immediately after the extraction,” Charlie says, the fingers of her left hand tapping around on her keyboard while she eats with her right. “They made good time. The GPS just pinged in… Nantucket.”

“The island?” Dean says, surprised. He pauses in fixing his own plate of food, the butter sliding off of his knife and plopping onto the pancake below. “Kinda dumb to go to an island, innit?” 

Charlie shrugs. “He could be making a pit stop. I have a feeling that’s not where he’s going to set up base. Wouldn’t be a very strategically sound location.”

“Charlie is right,” Castiel says, turning back to his half-eaten pancakes with a thoughtful frown. “If Lucifer has a suspicion we are tracking him, he is going to do his best to figure out how to surprise us.”

“The GPS is going to ping us every twelve hours,” Charlie says. “If he stays anywhere for two days, we can assume that’s where he’s setting up camp.”

Everyone nods collectively in agreement. Dean is busy pouring syrup on his pancakes when he feels Castiel staring at him. Not even bothering to glance up, Dean says, “It’s rude to stare, Cas.” 

“You seem different,” Castiel says. “Happier.” Way to not beat around the bush. When Dean finally glances up at him, Castiel’s gaze is soft and inquiring. It makes Dean’s guts squirm. That feeling in his chest threatens to cut off his air supply.

“Everybody’s got a good side, Cas,” Dean says, deciding to go for deflection. “If you weren’t such an ass all the time you might get to know mine.”

That, surprisingly, causes Castiel to bristle slightly. “I have a duty I must fulfill, as do you.” 

“And a thanks for making you breakfast should be an item on that never-ending list of duties,” Dean replies, eyes narrowing slightly. 

Tension zips through the room. Castiel sets down his fork, resting his palms on the counter like he’s trying to center himself. “I did not ask for this.” 

“You didn’t, but Charlie did,” Dean says, feeling anger start to simmer beneath the surface. “Because somehow, despite the fact you’re an asshole, you’re surrounded by people who care about you.” 

Castiel frowns, like this is news to him. “I fail to understand your point.” 

“There is no _point_ , Cas, and that’s the fucking point!” Dean finally snaps. “You do nice things for people you care about, without being asked to, because it’s _nice_.” 

“You should show me some respect,” Castiel nearly growls.

Dean stands his ground. “ _No_.”

Electricity crackles in the air between them. The past few day’s stress and anxieties have led to a culmination of Dean’s resolve snapping, and of _course_ his anger is directed at Castiel. This guy blackmailed him into the mafia, dug up memories of a past Dean desperately tried to forget, and then has the gall to act like a dick to everyone who is helping him. Dean doesn’t know their stories, doesn’t know if they’re here of their own free will or under some weird contract like Dean, but it doesn’t _matter_. Dean can take being walked on. He can take being stomped on, spit on, insulted or belittled.

What he won’t stand for is disrespect towards anyone else in this fucking room. 

Everyone is deathly silent. Even Jack looks slightly uncomfortable. Castiel and Dean stare each other down for what feels like eternity (but is probably only thirty seconds), and then the sound of the stool scraping across the floor cuts through the air like a serrated knife. Castiel stands, shoulders stiff, posture straight, and then turns.

“Dean. Come with me.” 

Castiel stalks out of the room and when he’s out of eyesight Charlie, Benny, and Jack all turn wide eyes towards Dean. He grumbles and runs his hands through his hair in frustration before he follows after Castiel, leaving a stunned silence behind them. The front door is open a crack and Dean exits the house through it, fully aware of the fact that the front porch is the farthest part of the house from the kitchen. Whatever he and Castiel say out here won’t be overheard, unless they start yelling.

Which is a possibility.

Castiel is standing at the railing of the porch, his hands spread on the wood, his entire body wrought with tension as he stares out at his perfectly manicured lawn. Dean shuts the door behind him to signal his presence and then moves to stand next to Castiel, figuring if he’s gonna get hit he may as well take it like a champ.

“Do you know why you are here, Dean?” Castiel asks, his voice an echo of their brief conversation last night. A conversation that seems like a lifetime ago.

“Because my brother is an idiot,” Dean tries for humor.

It falls flat when Castiel cuts Dean a sharp look. “You are here because I need you. My white russian.”

Dean’s jaw tenses, folding his arms over his chest both to trap some warmth and give himself a bit of a shield against Castiel’s gruff voice. “Yeah- you’ve said that. Still don’t know what it means.”

“I know who you are,” Castiel continues, straightening and turning to face Dean. Dean’s got a few inches on him, but Castiel is thicker, broader. Even dressed down in cozy sleep clothes he’s intimidating, sharp lines hidden by soft and worn cotton. “I know _what_ you are.” 

Dean takes a step back. It feels like Castiel’s eyes are looking straight through him. “S’that supposed to mean?” 

The smirk that curls on Castiel’s lips is feral. The soft sleepy man that walked into the kitchen for some pancakes just twenty minutes ago is gone. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel it, Dean Winchester. When you hold a gun, when you throw a punch…”

Dean’s brain flashes back to Castiel asking him if waking up on the right side of the bed includes a gun in his hand. 

“You have done well in trying to forget your past, but you cannot escape it, Dean.” Castiel’s voices pierces directly into Dean’s heart. Visions of Sam getting dragged away by an invisible enemy wrench through Dean’s mind. His breathing trips up at the visceral memory, still fresh from his recent nightmare. “You have been trained for this well before you came into my charge.” 

Is he breathing at all? Dean’s vision tunnels slightly, his mind’s eye supplying him with flashing images - John handing six year old Dean a pistol, John teaching eight year old Dean how to tie a noose, John showing twelve year old Dean how to disarm a man twice his size. 

“No matter where you live, no matter what you do, your past will always be a part of you,” Castiel says, his voice low. “No book store, no quaint little cafe can change who you _are_ , Dean Winchester.” 

Dean closes his eyes.

“A hunter.”

The words punch the air out of Dean’s lungs. He opens his eyes, fury washing through him. “What does that _mean_?” he demands, voice raising. “What’s so fucking special about me, huh? What’s got me so different from Benny or any other goon you got on your squad?” 

“You are a _Winchester_ ,” Castiel says, like this is all the revelation Dean needs. “John raised you but I have single-handedly brought you to fruition and you will do well to remember that.” 

Dean growls and steps up into Castiel’s space, their noses almost touching as he utters under his breath, words dripping with venom, “I ain’t your little bitch, Cas.” 

Despite Dean’s threatening physical proximity, Castiel fucking _smirks_. He holds his ground, completely unruffled by the threat in Dean’s body language and voice. “That is what I count on.” 

Without permission from his brain, Dean’s hands lift to fist in the front of Castiel’s soft robe, dragging him so close their knees and noses bump. Words die on his tongue, he’s so angry he can’t even think. And Castiel just lets Dean manhandle him without a single complaint or defensive move and, stupidly, that just makes Dean _more_ angry. He searches the man’s smug gaze and then loosens his grip on Castiel’s shirt, finally letting him go with a bit more force than necessary, taking a step back to create distance between them. 

Castiel smooths down his sweater and then reaches to re-wrap his robe around his body and tie off the sash. “What did that accomplish, Dean?” 

“Nothing,” Dean spits, “because I didn’t punch your fuckin’ lights out.” He turns and grips the railing, burning holes into a rose bush with his eyes. He wrings the wood, a poor substitute for Castiel’s neck.

There’s a brief silence, and then Castiel’s quiet voice breaks the sound of birds chirping in the trees. “That, in itself, is an accomplishment.” Dean closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. “You are here for a reason, Dean. I know you feel it.” 

Veins are popping out in Dean’s forearms with how tightly he’s gripping the railing. “I was trained for this,” he says, the agreement also a realization. “But what the fuck _is_ this?” 

“I think, Dean,” Castiel says, fire and ice gone from his voice and replaced with a note of resignation, “it is time for you to learn the truth.” 

\--

Once Dean is sure that he and Castiel aren’t going to kill each other, the whole crew gathers in Castiel’s living room once more. Dean is back in the recliner that he’d slept in, Castiel and Jack are on the loveseat, and Benny and Charlie are posted up on the couch sharing a blanket. It’s a tense quiet that settles over them once they all get situated, and Dean feels his anxiety ramping up bit by bit. 

After about forty-five seconds of nothing, Dean’s impatience snaps, “Spill.” 

Castiel sighs softly. “It will not be so easy as black and white.” 

Dean glares across the room at him. “Try me.” 

“Your father…” Castiel starts slowly. “...taught you many things.”

Bristling a bit, Dean leans back in the chair and rests a palm on his thigh, drumming his fingers idly. “He did.”

“Did you ever wonder why?” Castiel asks plainly.

Dean frowns a little, shifting his gaze to the side. “No.” 

Castiel nodded. “And he died before he could explain it to you.” 

Dean tenses. “Is this talk also gonna clue me in on how you know so much about my past?” 

“You come from a proud family,” Castiel states. “A strong bloodline.”

If Dean wasn't irritated before, he surely is now. He gives an eye roll Sam would be proud of. “Would you just fucking _tell me_ what’s going on?” 

“Our destinies are intertwined, Dean Winchester.” 

Dean takes a moment to absorb those words and process that information. After a pause, he asks, “Meaning?” 

“I am sure you thought your father was a superstitious man, yes?” Castiel asks, leaning back a bit. Looks like he’s settling in for a grand old story, which puts Dean on edge. “He always prepared you for worst case scenarios - some scenarios that you weren’t even sure would ever come to be.” 

Dean thinks about the dream he had the other night recounting that strange event with Sam when they were kids. He thinks about the charms in his trunk and the salt he habitually keeps stocked in his car, his home, and his cafe. Frowning, but interested, Dean decides to listen to what Castiel has to say. He’s still angry, no doubt, but it’s about damn time he learned what the fresh hell is going on.

“There are things…” Castiel says, choosing his words carefully. “And people that slip under the radar. The likes of which are not known to the average person. Your father, Dean, and his father before him, and so on and so forth, had the training and instincts to hunt these things. The knowledge has been passed down for generations in your bloodline.”

“What things?” Dean asks, brows knitting. “What people?” 

“Things like the wendigo that took your brother when you were children,” Castiel says. Dean’s blood runs cold, seeing Sam being dragged through the brush in his mind’s eye. He’s never told _anyone_ that story, ever. He and Sam don’t even bring it up. When he opens his mouth to ask what the hell a wendigo is, Castiel raises a calm hand. “I need you to know, Dean, that I have never lied to you.” 

Now Dean is really confused. “What?” 

“Your brother taking a loan from Gabriel was no coincidence.” Dean’s heart rate spikes. “We sensed you the moment you moved to the city. It was only a matter of time until our paths crossed.” Castiel drops his gaze to his lap. “In truth, Dean, I had been watching you long before we met in the warehouse. We were not sure how to establish contact with you, and then your brother somehow found his way to Gabriel. There is a... “ Castiel drums his fingers over his knees idly. “...connection between us. A profound bond that will always have us meeting in this life and the next.” 

“S’that why my brother and Gabe are dating?” Dean asks, protective instincts within him blaring warning bells inside his head.

“I did not expect a romantic relationship to form between them,” Castiel says, sounding honestly surprised about that turn of events. “But it is not uncommon.” 

“Uncommon.” Dean nods slowly, repeating the word. “Uncommon for what? What kind of- what _bond_ are you talking about?” 

“The bond between the Krushnic family and the Winchester family,” Castiel says, lifting his eyes to met Dean’s gaze. “The bond between a warlock and his protector.” 

Dean’s heart stutters to a stop. He stares evenly at Castiel for a few seconds and then, unbidden, feels a bit of hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest. He tries to stifle it while trying to process this information, caught between thinking Castiel is crazy and believing him. It’s a strange sensation. His gaze travels to the other occupants of the room; Charlie is sipping on her steaming mug of coffee looking pensive. Benny’s expression is soft and open as he regards Dean, waiting for a reaction. Jack has the tiniest smile on his lips from where he’s curled up against the arm of the loveseat, and no one else looks crazy, so then probably Castiel isn’t crazy, either. 

“Warlocks.” Dean licks his lips, his gaze shifting between everyone one more time before settling on Castiel. Another huff of a laugh. “Like… magic.” 

Castiel nods. “My brother and I are sixth generation warlocks, just as you and your brother are sixth generation hunters.” 

Dean’s mind supplies him with all the information he’s been blocking out or ignoring over the past year. His general ease with weapons, borne from what he thought was years of training with his father. His hesitancy to be on Castiel’s side and yet, for some reason, his fierce, unexplained loyalty to the man. The flashes of Benny’s sharp teeth-

Dean cuts his gaze over towards Benny.

Benny meets his gaze with a subtle nod. 

Standing up, Dean wipes his sweaty palms on the tops of his thighs. “This is. This is a lot.” 

Castiel unfolds his legs and stands as well. “It is.” 

“Look, I uh-” Dean licks his lips, trying to find his words. “Let me just ask one thing.” 

Castiel’s head tilts imploringly.

“Sammy doesn't- Sammy doesn’t actually owe you shit, right? The whole thing about Gabe fucking up. That- that ain’t how it is?”

“Gabriel most certainly authorized that loan without my permission,” Castiel says dryly. His voice softens. “But your brother has never been, and will never be in any danger of my wrath.”

Dean frowns. “You said you never lied.”

“I never told you the full truth,” Castiel amends.

Frustration laces through Dean’s limbs. “Right.” He says shortly. He presses the palms of his heels to his forehead, staving off the headache starting to form. “Ok. I gotta- I’m gonna… go.” 

Benny stands up, “I’ll go with-”

“No.” Dean says, a bit sharper than intended. He sends Benny an apologetic look. “I gotta sort this all out. I-” he shakes out his hands and meets Castiel’s gaze again, feeling something twist inside of him when he sees the worried shadow in those blue eyes. He’s come a long way from wanting to throttle the guy just an hour ago. “I just need a few days.” 

Castiel nods, sitting down slowly on the loveseat once more. “Of course, Dean.” 

On stilted legs Dean grabs his belongings and then leaves Castiel’s cozy cottage in the woods, getting into his car and driving on autopilot. 

Castiel’s gaze burns into his back like a brand. 

\--

Sam closes up shop for the day when Dean comes in looking like he got hit by a bus, which Dean is both appreciative of and insulted by. Tucked in a little nook are two cushy chairs with a table and that’s where Dean is directed, sitting heavily down in the worn cushions and leaning his head back. He’s got a monster headache, he’s feeling more anxiety than he ever has in his entire life, and he kind of feels like throwing up. Sam disappears for a minute and comes back with a mug of steaming tea, pushing it under Dean’s nose.

Lavender.

Dean wraps his hands around the warm mug and inhales deeply, feeling himself calm. Sam disappears again and this time comes back with his own mug of tea and an old, worn book in his hands, putting the mug on the table and then opening up the book in his lap. Dean stares morosely at the book for a second, and then lifts his gaze up to Sam’s, whose eyes are filled with brotherly concern.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean greets belatedly, the first words he’s spoken to his brother since entering the shop. 

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice tinged with warmth and worry. 

“I’m in the mafia,” Dean confesses.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Sam says softly, “I know.” 

Dean closes his eyes and relaxes his head back against the chair. “Cas. It’s Cas, Sam. He and Gabe… they got this whole thing.” 

He hears the chair shift when Sam does. “I know.” 

“And I been- I been trainin’ with Benny behind your back, and going with Cas to people’s houses. Husbands are goin’ missing and Cas’s brother Lucifer is behind it all. And we rescued this kid, Sammy, and he’s supposed to be some sort of missing link that’ll blow the case wide open, and…” Dean’s voice starts getting hoarse with emotion and exhaustion. “And all of this seems really fucked up, ‘cause Cas just told me he’s a fuckin’ warlock or some shit, and instead of calling him crazy and putting him out of his misery, there’s a part of me that believes him because dad…” Dean opens his eyes, looking at the ceiling through the wetness gathering in them. 

In the ensuing silence, Dean hears Sam open up the book and flip through a few pages. He lethargically turns his head to dully watch Sam’s fingers scour the pages, and then when Sam lifts the book so Dean can see, Dean has to blink away the unshed tears in his eyes to focus. 

At the top of the page is _KRUSHNIC_ in curly, aged letters. Right below it, _WINCHESTER_.

Furrowing his brows, Dean glances up to Sam. “What’s this?” 

“Gabe gave me this book,” Sam says. He pauses, then adds, “Gabe gave me a lot of books. Do you remember the box we were unloading a while ago?” 

Dean nods, reaching out to take the book from Sam’s grasp when his brother shakes it in invitation. “Sure. The one with the potpourri bags.” He sets his tea down on the table and puts the book in his lap. The weight feels significant.

“They weren’t potpourri bags,” Sam says. He reaches under the table between the chairs and then pulls out one of the small bags, holding it for Dean to see. “I’ve been finding them all over the bookstore. I bet if you searched the cafe you’d find some there, too.”

Dean frowns deeper. “What are they?”

“Hex bags,” Sam says. 

Dean snorts.

“They can be used for good or bad,” Sam explains. “To protect or harm. In this case, Gabe and Cas have been leaving them around us for protection, to ward us from any evil.”

“Because they’re warlocks,” Dean says tiredly. He rubs the side of his nose repeatedly. 

“So get this,” Sam takes the book back from Dean. “This book chronicles our family ties with the Krushnics over the past few centuries.” He flips through a few more pages. “Basically the whole book is an allegory of their bond.” 

“Because we’re hunters,” Dean says, tone still tired. He slumps down in the chair, elbows on the armrests, fingers to his temples where he starts massaging them firmly. He backtracks a little. “I’m just gonna assume you know everything and I don’t gotta confess my sins anymore.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, only sounding slightly apologetic. “Once I started going through everything Gabe gave me I kinda connected the dots. I’ve known for about two weeks.”

Dean sighs heavily. Figures his smarty pants brother would figure all this out before Dean’s dumb, slow ass could catch up. They sit together in silence for a few moments, before Dean speaks up again, eyes closed. “Do you know what a wendigo is?” 

He can imagine Sam’s nose scrunching in confusion. “A what?” 

Nodding, Dean covers his face with his hands and presses them tightly against his skull. “Never mind. Warlocks are real. Magic is real. Monsters are…” he thinks about Benny for some reason, and corrects himself. “Supernatural creatures are real.” 

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Sam says. 

Dean uncovers his face just in time to see Sam standing up and grabbing his steaming mug, starting to walk away. “Where you goin’?” 

“I’m gonna start going through the boxes of books Gabe gave me again,” Sam says, sending Dean what looks like an excited smile. 

Dean blinks. “Research. You’re gonna do… research.” 

Sam twists so he can bend slightly and pat Dean’s knee with his free hand. “All day, if we have to.” 

Dean puts his hands back over his face to stifle his groan. _We_. “Mother _fu_ -”


	9. Fingerprints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you notice any timeline errors please know that i didn't keep track of shit and i 100% am an idiot so uh pls just let it slide for now

Dean knows that education doesn’t stop after schooling. As a college graduate, he’s very aware of that fact. He’s constantly learning new things about his business - financially and otherwise - and he’s always learning new things from the customers that chit chat with him while he puts together their orders. Knitting, politics, ceramics, different acronyms kids are using in text messages. He learns a little about everything, always has, and is very firmly rooted in the belief that as humans one never _stops_ learning. It’s coded into the DNA and without that ever reaching intellectual grasp, the human race would crumble. Those are just facts.

That doesn’t mean Dean _likes_ this extra curricular learning.

Specifically: learning up on lore - magical, mythical, and otherwise. 

There are so many damn _books_ and so many freaking _words_ , a lot of it in English, some of it in languages that make his eyes cross.

Castiel has kept his distance since revealing the truth, and Sam has taken full advantage of Dean suddenly being unoccupied. When Dean isn’t in the book store with his nose in a tome he’s got a book behind the counter at the cafe, reading up on all sorts of things he thought were the stuff from nightmares (and when he learns exactly what a wendigo is, he’s never been more thankful for John’s paranoid teachings). He brushes up on learning about magic and all it entails, as well; good witches, bad witches, warlocks and spellcasters in between. 

It’s fucking massive.

It’s exhausting. 

A week after The Talk with Castiel, Dean’s phone buzzes once in his pocket to alert him of a text. He’s in the kitchen of the cafe doing dishes and decides he can ignore the text for now, focusing on his task. Kevin has been a freaking Godsend, stepping up to the plate when Dean needs to cut his hours short, and remembering to finish the orders that Dean starts on the computer with renewed vigor… and then loses track of because he falls asleep with his forehead on the expense reports, sigils and spells dancing behind his closed lids. 

Sam is really coming at this whole situation with a passion Dean can’t quite emulate, but then again, Sam figured it out before him so he’s had a bit more time to adjust. 

Finishing up the dishes Dean dries his hands with a towel and then takes off his soaked apron, hanging it up to dry. He pokes his head around the corner to check the status of the cafe; Kevin and Alfie are grinding and packing the house-roasted beans, caught in friendly conversation. There are only two patrons seated at tables, so Dean calls it good and then retreats to his office. He sits down in his chair and pulls his phone out, fully expecting an excited text from Sam about whatever the hell he’s currently reading, and blinks when he sees it’s a message from Castiel.

 **Dickbag:** Hello, Dean. I debated contacting you, but Charlie insisted. I do not wish to bother you, because I know you are taking time to process the situation, but I could not leave you unattended.

Dean squints. Castiel’s manner of speaking is already a little strange, but seeing it translated into text has Dean snorting in amusement. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to decide how to reply. He’s thankful Castiel had given him his space, because if Castiel would have tried to contact him the next day after dropping the bombshell, Dean would have socked him in the throat. Since then Dean has had time to think about the situation, as well as work through some things with Sam, and he’s currently in a place where he’s not… happy with the situation, per se - because how can someone be _happy_ learning that they’re part of something as crazy as a _Winchester legacy_ and basically a battery for a magical being - but he’s much less confused and angry about it. 

Annoyed? Yes.

Gonna get in a fist fight over it? Less likely.

… Maybe.

 **Dean:** thanks for the space bud. 

He stares at his phone for a second, and then types out another text.

 **Dean:** i get why you didn’t say anything off the bat. not mad at you for it.

Dean wakes up his computer and starts working on next week’s schedule, and after a few minutes his phone vibrates. 

**Dickbag:** I appreciate that, Dean. Nevertheless, I am sorry for the circumstances.  
**Dean:** but now i know why you talk so weird. warlock explains it  
**Dickbag:** My being a warlock has nothing to do with my proficiency in language.  
**Dean:** no i’m pretty sure being a warlock makes you talk like ur from the 18th century or some shit  
**Dickbag:** Not all of us have the luxury of having a charming Southern drawl.  
**Dean:** aw, u think i’m charming?  
**Dickbag:** I think you are incorrigible.  
**Dean:** can u pronounce that word or just type it?  
**Dickbag:** Good day, Dean.

Dean smirks to himself as he flips his phone over and clicks back into the schedule spreadsheet. 

He feels lighter for the first time in weeks. When he catches himself smiling he immediately schools it into a frown, rolling his eyes at himself. 

Damn this profound bond.

\--

“Oh fuck, my eyes! Make it stop!” Dean yells when he enters the book store a week later, slapping a hand over his eyes and scrambling to try and steady himself on a bookcase as he exaggeratedly stumbles. He peeks between his fingers to see Sam giving him a dead look and Gabriel, who is currently wrapped around Sam, smirking happily towards Dean. 

“Grow up, Dean,” Sam says. “It was a kiss.”

“It was-” Dean pretends to gag. “-too much.” 

“I could show you a lot more, Dean-o,” Gabriel suggests with a waggle of his brows.

Dean walks further into the store, rolling his eyes and shuddering. “I’d rather you didn’t.” Within reach of the couple, Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his coat. Winter is turning into spring day by day, but there’s still a cold dampness clinging to the air which makes Dean’s fingers a bit stiffer than he likes. Sam hadn’t explained why he needed Dean to come over, and Dean’s feeling a bit cranky from the weather, so he grumbles, “What do you want?” 

“Your blood,” Gabriel says.

Dean squints. “My what.” 

“For a spell,” Sam clarifies, sending a glare down at Gabriel. “Stop being so dramatic.”

Gabriel sighs with a flourish and pulls away from Sam with a wave of his hands. “What’s the fun in that? I’m a spoo _oo_ oooky warlock and I need your blood for a spell!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “What’s the spell for? I’m not just gonna _give_ you my blood.” He folds his arms over his chest and smirks at Gabriel, smug. “I know it’s gotta be a willing blood-let for good magic to work.” 

Gabriel snickers, “‘Good magic’. _White_ magic, Dean-o.” Dean shrugs, and Gabriel pulls a small vial and a knife out of his own coat pocket. “I need your blood for a protection spell. We’re gonna cloak you and Sammy boy from Lucifer’s beady little eyes.”

Dean frowns. “He’s watching us?” 

“He’s always watching,” Gabriel confirms. “He knows where you two work, since Cassie and I have visited both places, but not where you live. A concealment spell isn’t going to erase that knowledge from his head, but it will keep him from being able to actually set foot wherever you two are.” Gabriel shakes the vial with an all too pleased grin. “Already got Sam’s blood. Just need yours.” 

Dean takes the knife and the vial from Gabriel with a huff. “How’s the spell work?” 

“It’s gonna brand you on the inside,” Gabriel explains. Dean doesn’t like the gleam in his eye.

Arching a brow, Dean pauses with the knife hovering over the underside of his forearm. “Ain’t that gonna hurt?”

Gabriel shrugs, his smile looking too pleased for comfort. “All the good spells hurt.”

Letting out a sigh, Dean slices into his skin deep enough to bleed, but not deep enough to scar. He flexes his fingers into a fist and then exchanges the knife for the vial, collecting as much blood as he can. After about half an ounce Sam reaches over to press a towel to the wound, his own blood dried on the opposite corner. Dean corks the vial and hands it back over to Gabriel, who lifts a hand to halt Dean from giving it over.

“I’m not doing the spell,” Gabriel says. “My pretty little brother is.” 

Dean frowns. “Why can’t you?” 

“Cassie’s a much more powerful warlock than I am,” Gabriel says with a shrug, but the slight edge in his voice lets Dean and Sam know that he’s not necessarily a fan of that fact. He pulls another vial of blood out of his pocket and hands it to Dean. “This is Sam’s blood. Take both of these to Cassie and he’ll do the hard work on his end and I’ll reap the benefits here.” 

Dean stares down at the vials in his hand, using his other hand to press the towel to the cut on his arm. Lifting his gaze to Gabriel, Dean sighs as something clicks into place. “You just want me to go see him.”

Gabriel sends Dean a sunny smile. “Ya got me.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Look- I get we’re meant to be bonded and all that jazz, but I don’t gotta like the guy.”

“Have you ever liked him?” Sam asks, sounding amused.

Dean sends him a wilting glare. “No. And I ain’t gonna start now.”

Gabriel just smacks Dean on the shoulder with a sunny smile. “Take these vials to him ASAP, bucko. The sooner the spell is complete the sooner we can get you bozos off of Lucy’s radar.” 

“Fucking wizards,” Dean grumbles under his breath as he turns to leave the shop.

“Warlocks,” Sam corrects him.

Dean flips him the bird over his shoulder.

\--

The drive out to Castiel’s house on a Spring day is beautiful. Easy. Calming, even. Dean can almost ignore the fact that he’s got two vials of blood in his coat pocket and pretend like it’s any other day taking his Baby out for a spin. He misses the turn to Castiel’s house the first time and has to flip a bitch on the deserted road, muttering to himself as he heads back to where the turn off is only indicated by a single blue streamer on a low hanging branch of a tree. He thinks about concealment spells and briefly wonders: is Castiel’s house cloaked? It must be, since Lucifer doesn’t seem to know where he is. Also, had Dean not been shown the turn off by Benny the first time, he probably would miss it completely. Castiel’s house is neatly tucked away in a little private corner of the world.

In the day time the driveway seems longer, now that Dean can look around properly. Surrounded by trees and foliage Dean appreciates the secluded beauty of the area, undisturbed by anyone other than Krushnic and Co; there are birds fluttering, a few deer scattered about, and a general sense of peace layered thick through the air.

The long driveway opens up, the trees clearing to reveal Castiel’s home. Still cozy, still neatly manicured. Dean wonders if magic helps Castiel tend to all of his flowers and whatever else he’s growing, because as far as Dean can tell Castiel doesn’t spend too much time at home. He seems to always be on the move. Not to mention it’s the tail end of winter and Castiel’s house looks like a mini Eden with lush greens and bright flowers sprouting up around it.

Parking his car Dean gets out and stretches, walking up the steps of the front porch. The front door is open, the screen shut, and Dean takes it as invitation as he enters the house, screen door creaking slightly.

“Cas?” Dean calls. There’s an interesting scent in the air, Dean’s nose twitching idly. 

“Dean?” Castiel comes out of the kitchen, a bright yellow, cat-shaped oven mitt on one hand and a matching pot holder in the other. He’s wearing grey sweats, a blue t-shirt, and a confused frown. “Why are you here?”

Dean lofts a brow, eyes wandering down Castiel’s frame without his own permission. This is the most skin he’s ever seen. There are _so_ many more tattoos to look at. Catching himself, he clears his throat. “Hello to you, too.” He grumbles, and then pulls the vials out of his coat pocket. “I come bearing gifts.”

Castiel blinks at the vials, his confusion only deepening. “Gabriel was to bring those to me tomorrow.” 

Dean clenches his jaw. “He told me I had to bring ‘em now.”

Castiel’s gaze slides up to meet Dean’s. “My apologies, Dean. It seems my brother is lazy as ever.” He gestures, “Please come in.” He disappears back into the kitchen, wild hair and soft cotton..

Fucking Gabe.

Dean follows Castiel into the kitchen. The kitchen table is cluttered with bowls, vials, tubes, and containers. Well- cluttered might be too strong of a word. It looks like they’re organized in a specific manner, although what that manner is, Dean has no clue. What’s that saying about ‘a method to madness’? There are what looks like herbs and spices in a few of the bowls, some bundled neatly, others tossed a little haphazardly. Dean sets down the vials of his and Sam’s blood so he can pick up a jar filled with murky water with what looks like a very small brain floating around in the guck..

“Cookin’ up something tasty?” Dean hazards a guess. 

Castiel pulls a tray out of the oven, bringing it over to the table to set it down on the potholder he puts in place. “The protection spell for you and your brother. It is actually good that you are here. Is Sam still with Gabriel?”

“Should be,” Dean says, setting the jar down. He looks at the tray, arching a brow. “Are you making… paper?” 

Castiel idly waves the yellow kitty mitt over what looks like parchment on the baking tray. “I had to dry out acacia bark for spell.”

Dean surveys the table. “This is a lotta stuff for one spell. Are they all this complicated?”

Castiel shrugs, taking off the mitt and turning to set it on the island. “Some are, some not. The complexity of the spell reflects ability of the caster. The spell I am going to cast on you and your brother is… very powerful.”

“Gabe says you’re stronger than him,” Dean says conversationally. He picks up a bundle of dried herbs, bringing it to his nose for a sniff, immediately recoiling and wincing. He puts the bundle back in the bowl, offended. 

“Through hard work and studies, I am,” Castiel says, though not with any pride. Just stating a fact. “Gabriel has talent, but commitment he has none.” He picks up the dried whatever-the-fuck from the tray and drops it into the same bowl as the foul smelling herbs. “I surpassed him because of his personal flaws, not because he is without talent.” 

Dean nods, and then takes a step back. He stares at the table and slides his hands into his pockets, thinking about how ridiculous all of this is. Castiel is a pseudo-mafia leader and here he is, Betty fucking Crocker, cooking up a spell to make Dean and Sam invisible to Lucifer and his cronies. It’s a little jarring, how much of Dean’s perspectives on life have changed in two weeks. He’d had a lot of time to come to terms with the fact that Castiel isn’t a bad guy, that he really is trying to help people (even though he himself is an ass), but this new level of understanding what _exactly_ is going on is… discombobulating, at best. Dean still isn’t even really sure it’s real. There hasn’t been any definitive proof yet, that magic exists and Castiel can wield it. All he has is Castiel’s word, as well as Benny, Charlie, Jack, and some parlor tricks. Which alright, kinda hard to have a whole gaggle of people saying something and not believe them, but… still.

Suddenly Dean is antsy. Castiel is starting to mix up dry ingredients in a large bowl, and Dean takes a subtle step backwards away from the table, fingers curling in the pockets of his jeans. Castiel finishes mixing the dry ingredients and grabs a different bowl, starting to pour the liquid ingredients in one by one, measured by eye, stirring them with a wooden spoon. He then moves to a small bowl with a mortar and pestle, crushing up a few items. It makes Dean clench his teeth with the noise which comes from whatever it is breaking and grinding. 

Castiel starts mixing all of the ingredients together in the dry bowl, stirring slowly and carefully with the wooden spoon. Once he’s satisfied he grabs a matchbook off of the table, striking three and then dropping them into the bowl. As soon as the flames hit the mixed ingredients there’s an explosion of blue and purple, smoke and sparks crackling through the air. Castiel doesn’t flinch, but Dean does slightly, eyes widening at the display. After the flames die down and the smoke subsides, Castiel turns towards Dean, his expression carefully neutral.

“Dean, please remove your shirt.” 

Dean’s ears immediately burn as he physically recoils, “What?” 

“The concoction needs to touch your skin, directly over your ribs where the spell will be branded into you.” 

“Can’t you just- uh. I don’t know. _Not_?” Dean argues weakly. 

Castiel is patient. “Dean. This is necessary for both you and your brother’s safety.” 

Feeling his entire face flush, Dean fidgets with the sleeves of his coat. Using his brother against him like that. Cheap. But then again, he’s already had to give blood, how much weirder is it to have some strange paste smeared on his chest? He supposes the obvious issue is that Castiel has to… touch him. Which, as Dean shrugs off his coat and drapes it over a chair, he supposes he would rather Castiel touch him than Gabriel. That fucker would probably twist his nipples or some shit. 

Exhaling shortly, Dean grabs the hem of his henley and pulls it up over his head. His nipples immediately pebble, though not from cold - the kitchen is quite warm - and he sort of hunches his shoulders in a little, self-consciously. He’s in the best shape of his life, which is kind of funny considering his age, but it’s been an embarrassingly long time since anyone other than his brother has had a look at his body. And let’s face it, the only reason Sam has even gotten an eyeful lately is because sometimes Dean needs coffee before he has enough energy to get dressed in the morning. 

But Castiel barely casts Dean a second glance once he’s shirtless. Dean is simultaneously thankful and… offended? Wow. What a combo. He squashes that down immediately, figuring if Castiel is gonna be cool about it, then he can be too. Castiel dips all ten of his fingers into the bowl and then turns towards Dean, blue eyes dropping towards Dean’s chest. Dean can’t read the expression in his eyes. Stepping closer, Castiel lifts his hands, fingers splayed, and then speaks softly.

“This will be painful,” he warns, “but I need you to stay still, Dean.” 

Dean licks his lips, anxiety replacing any other emotion that had been floating through him. “A’right.”

The kitchen is quiet. Castiel moves into Dean’s space, probably a bit closer than necessary, his hands lifting up to Dean’s torso. His pinkies rest on the outermost edges of Dean’s ribcage, long fingers spreading wide in an arc, his thumbs resting on either side of Dean’s sternum. The paste on Castiel’s fingers is warm from the flames and Castiel’s own body heat, and Dean suppresses a shudder. Castiel is staring at his chest and Dean feels hot and cold flash through his body in an instant - he closes his eyes and tips his head back slightly, exhaling again, slower this time. 

Castiel’s fingers apply pressure, and then he starts chanting something under his breath. Dean vaguely recognizes it as Latin. The warmth from Castiel’s fingertips blossoms and increases and spreads through his body, spindling through his veins like molasses. Dean’s eyes open of their own volition and glance down to Castiel; blue eyes are staring directly into Dean’s heart, pink lips forming words Dean doesn’t understand. Dean’s eyes drop to where Castiel’s fingers are pressed against his chest, sees how the blood paste smears and colors over his freckles. 

There’s a static charge in the room ramping up with every word Castiel utters. Dean’s ears start ringing faintly, his lashes fluttering a little at the sudden fuzziness in his head. Castiel’s words increase in volume and then his hands rest fully on Dean’s chest, palms flush against him, Castiel all but yelling the last word of the incantation as his fingertips press almost painfully into his ribs, Dean taking a small step back to steady himself. 

The pain that rips through him is explosive. It’s bone-deep and consuming, Dean’s head tipping back in an anguished cry. He feels his veins bulging and pulsing and he feels _fire_ inside of him, he’s burning, he’s on fire, he’s going to die like this, all of his senses and nerve endings going on the fritz to try and compartmentalize the pain he’s feeling. A gust of wind blasts through the kitchen - the glass containers on the table all shatter to pieces - and then it’s over as quickly as it started, the pain receding as Dean’s knees give out on him.

Castiel catches him and lowers him to the floor, breaking his fall. 

Trembling, Dean opens his eyes and looks around wildly before looking down at his chest. His own hands fly up to pat himself over, checking for injury underneath the bloody handprints, and then sags in relief when he seems to be intact. He’s propped up against Castiel’s knee, one of Castiel’s arms around his shoulders, and Dean covers his face with a hand, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat.

“Fuck,” Dean says, his voice sounding wrecked. His stomach lurches and he twists away from Castiel suddenly, hands planted on the floor as he dry heaves. 

“The nausea will subside,” Castiel says calmly. Sensing Dean can keep himself upright, Castiel pulls away slightly, though his hand drags comfortingly over Dean’s back. “Can you stand?”

Dean shifts on his rear until he can sit with his back against the island, pushing a stool aside so he can slump against the cupboards without impediment. “Gimme a minute.” 

Castiel stands up and moves to the sink, turning on the faucet. When he comes back his hands are clean and he’s holding a glass of water, which Dean takes and greedily drinks half before his stomach protests. He sags back against the island again, looking down at his chest. He lifts a hand to swipe a thumb over the blood to wipe it away… and then frowns when it doesn’t. 

“Cas,” Dean says. “Get this offa me.” 

Castiel retrieves a washcloth, kneeling down and reaching to wipe gently at Dean’s chest. The red paste fades but leaves behind faint imprints, and Dean feels a flash of annoyance flare up inside him. 

“Why isn’t it coming off?” 

“It’s… permanent,” Castiel says. “My brand must be on both you and Sam for you to stay invisible.”

“Thought you said it was gonna mark my ribs?” Dean snaps, and then winces when the tension in his body makes his chest ache. He rubs idly at his side, “Judging by how this feels I’d say you did.” 

“Internal magic is a much more finicky thing than external,” Castiel explains. “You and I are not fully bound, yet. I cannot keep you protected unless a part of my magic is on your body at all times. These fingerprints channel my magic on a constant circuit in order to keep the wards on your bones active.”

“Bound?” Dean frowns. “We aren’t?”

Castiel shifts so he can sit cross legged on the floor in front of Dean. He rests his palms on his bent knees, looking like he’s getting ready to meditate, before he takes a breath and speaks. “In a fated way, we are connected. Our families. However, the depths of our connection have not been fully… grasped. Sam and Gabriel are already bound. They…” Castiel shifts his gaze away. “...consummated their bond shortly after meeting.” 

Dean groans at the thought of his brother having sex with _anyone_ , let alone Gabriel, and then lifts a hand to press the heel of his palm into his forehead. Something clicks inside him, panic working its way into his throat. “We don’t-” he drops his hand to fix Castiel with a worried gaze. “ _We_ don’t gotta- we don’t- the way you and I bond-”

“We do not have to have sexual intercourse order to bond,” Castiel says dryly, but patiently. “Our brothers have a unique relationship. They are not the example of the ‘norm’,” Castiel says, using air quotes with his fingers. 

Nodding, Dean relaxes a little. “Ok.” Relief washes through him, along with something else he can’t quite pin and chooses to ignore. “So what’s… the difference between our families being connected, and us being connected as a pair? It ain’t the same?”

“It’s not as powerful,” Castiel confirms. “Do you know any lore on witches, Dean?” 

Dean shrugs, “Just what Harry Potter tells me.”

Castiel actually _chuckles_. What a sound. “I’m afraid that’s not most reliable source.” 

“Probably not,” Dean agrees with a crooked smile. His body still aches, and he should get up off of the floor. “Hey uh- can we move the conversation to the living room? I’m startin’ to get sore.”

“Oh,” Castiel shifts to stand up, holding his hands out towards Dean. “Of course.” 

Dean accepts the help and resolutely doesn’t think about the fact that his skin burns pleasantly where Castiel touches him. He shrugs off the man’s hands and grabs his shirt, lethargically tugging it over his head and situating it back on his body before he walks into the living room and flops onto the couch, unashamedly grabbing the knit blanket off the back and wrapping himself up in it. Comfortable, he turns to Castiel, who takes up residence on the opposite side of the couch. “Alright. School me.” 

“Witches draw their power from many things,” Castiel starts explaining. “White witches draw their power from the Earth around them. Respect for mother nature and all she gives. There are certain things that help us advance our powers and spells, like crystals and amulets. But the most effective way of getting the most of one’s magic is by use of a familiar.” 

Dean’s head tips back a bit, staring at the unlit fireplace as he thinks. “Like, uh- black cats and shit?” 

“Most familiars are animals,” Castiel says, nodding. “Usually skinwalkers, or animagi. People who can shapeshift into a specific animal.”

“Woah,” Dean says. 

Castiel nods. “Having a familiar in that manner is ideal. Many witches do not reach their full potential without one. Familiars are predestined to their witch and are fiercely protective and loyal. They are able to cast magic, themselves, to an extent.”

“Ok,” Dean nods in understanding. He shifts his gaze over to Castiel. “But… you don’t have a familiar.”

“I do not have a _familiar_ ,” Castiel’s lips quirk a bit, “but my family has attained something even better.”

Dean gives Castiel a blank stare.

“A few centuries ago, witch hunts became a trend,” Castiel says softly. “Familiars were being hunted and slaughtered along with them. A witch could pass as a regular human, but familiars being able to change into animals drew quite a bit of attention if seen by the wrong person. There was a period of time where most familiars went into hiding, and refused to seek out their witch. Those were… dark times.” Castiel’s gaze drifts a little, before he seems to come back to himself. “My ancestors devised an easier way to blend in, without fear of being discovered. A sort of… cloaking device, if you will. An allegiance.”

“With hunters?” Dean arches a brow. “The people killing witches?” 

Castiel’s smile turns a little wry. “There was one family of hunters that believed in the good of humanity. One family that understood that there were witches who used their powers for evil, and witches who used their powers for good.” 

Dean sees where this is going. He shifts to get more comfortable, his ribs still aching. Reclined back slightly his eyes rove over Castiel’s frame; he’s never seen the man expose any more skin than his wrists and neck, but today he’s so… relaxed. The tattoos that decorate his fingers look a little bare without the rings and bracelets he normally wears. The Cyrillic lettering and weird runes (which now, Dean knows, are sigils and spellwork) crawl and spindle up the thick meat of his tanned forearms, charred feathers smattering in the blank spaces. The artwork is beautiful. He dutifully doesn’t think about the muscles flexing and rippling under them… or the fact that from the looks of it, the tattoos disappear underneath his clothes, more of them hidden from view.

“It was this family that my ancestors brought into their charge. A blood spell was cast, sealing the deal for generations to come - binding the two families together for eternity. As long as one family lives, so shall the other. In creating a bond with hunters, my ancestors gained wealth of knowledge. Blending in with non magic people while still being able to utilize their own powers had been unheard of, but they were accomplishing it. The hunters, who had always been taking care of things that go bump in the night, now had information highway at their fingertips. Weapons they couldn’t easily obtain before to defeat these monsters. It was most ideal win-win situation. 

“The Krushnics and the Winchesters were woven together for centuries. Even spread across the world, destiny would always bring them together. But in this last generation, something… changed.” Castiel’s gaze drops to his knees. “I still do not know what caused the shift. But Lucifer…” his eyes slide towards the coffee table, staring at nothing while he thinks. “Everything we had ever been taught, he fought. He was set on a path of destruction from beginning. And when your father wouldn’t accept him as his bonded…” Castiel closes his eyes.

Dean’s heart slows. Any suspicion he had about Lucifer’s involvement in his father’s death gets cemented with those words. The information seeps in, and then his heart rate starts spiking again, anger starting to simmer in his veins. “That son of a bitch killed my dad, didn’t he?” 

“Lucifer is after something forbidden,” Castiel says, instead of answering Dean’s question directly. “Your father refused to help him. _We_ refused to help him. And now he is on the warpath.” 

Dean stands up from the couch despite his body’s protests, feeling antsy and jittery. Alright. Process the information. The Winchesters and the Krushnics have been bonded for centuries. Hunting is in their blood. John Winchester was doing his best to start grooming his boys to fall in line with the family business. He died before he could explain everything to them. He died because he wouldn’t bond with Lucifer. He died… 

Emotion clogs Dean’s throat, his voice weak. “My dad was a good man.”

There’s sympathy in Castiel’s voice when he replies, “His death was not in vain. Without his bonded, Lucifer cannot rise to full power. Your father knew that, and that is why he resisted.”

“But now Lucifer’s found another way, right?” Dean says, turning towards Castiel. “That’s why he’s kidnapping all those dudes?” 

“Lucifer found an ancient grimoire full of dark magic,” Castiel nods gravely. “The spells in there are… incredible. And they require terrible, awful things to come to execution.” 

Dean sits down on the couch again, even though all he wants to do is pace. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then turns to send Castiel a determined gaze.

“What do we have to do to become bonded?” 

Castiel looks surprised at Dean’s question, like he wasn’t expecting it after everything he just explained. 

There’s a fire burning deep within Dean. 

“It is long process,” Castiel says. “It requires time and patience.” 

“I’ll do anything,” Dean says. He thinks about John’s last hunting trip, how he had kissed both of his boys goodbye for the first time in years, told them he loved them, and then disappeared down the highway in his old beat up truck. He thinks about uncle Bobby coming to them to deliver the news, he thinks about taking on responsibility for Sam when he was just seventeen years old - he thinks about John walking willingly to his death with the hope that he would stop something catastrophic.

Dean won’t accept the fact that John failed to accomplish that goal. 

“Dean.” 

Emerald meets sapphire when Dean looks at Castiel, his ribs pulsing with power and pain. 

Castiel’s head is tipped, his eyes probing. “... We will do what we must.” 

Dean nods. 

He will do anything.

\--*--

“I’ve never had a job before,” Jack prattles excitedly from the back seat of Benny’s Mercedes. Castiel is sitting next to him, the smallest of smiles tugging his lips as they head towards _Uncle Bobby’s Books_. “I am very excited to meet Sam. Gabriel has told me much about him.” It’s early May, the weather clear and beautiful, the sun rejuvenating them all and putting them in good moods.

“He is very generous man,” Castiel supplies. He knows he doesn’t need to give Jack a lecture on respect - the young man has it in spades, a firm believer in the ‘benefit of the doubt’ and, thanks to his gifts, an incredible judge of character. 

“Will I see Dean?” Jack asks, turning his curious blue eyes towards Castiel. He’s dressed in nice jeans and a soft grey sweater, perfect for a Spring day with a light breeze. His hair is coiffed neatly - he had help from Castiel - and he is the picture of proper.

“Perhaps,” Castiel says with a small shrug. “He often visits Sam when he has time.” 

Jack smiles huge, turning to look out the window again. “I wish I could help him at the cafe.” 

“We will see how the bookstore goes,” Castiel says, “and then maybe later we can ask Dean if he needs an extra hand.” 

Jack isn’t going to be paid for his time at the bookstore. He is there on Castiel’s behalf, a gesture of good faith and familial support. The Krushnics aren’t hurting for money, and Jack had made sure that he was volunteering before accepting the position. He has a heart of gold. All he wants to do is contribute something to the Winchesters. Castiel is so very thankful to have him back - and even more thankful that he seems unchanged, despite his time in captivity. The Mercedes pulls up in front of the store and Castiel and Jack exit the car, Benny sending the young man a warm smile from the rear view mirror. The door jingles when Jack opens it and Sam is near the front of the store dusting some shelves, his tall frame hunched down so he can reach where foot traffic deposits the most dust.

“Hello, Sam!” Jack greets cheerfully. “I am Jack.”

Straightening to his full height, Sam smiles warmly. “Hey, Jack. It’s good to finally meet you.” He holds out his hand for a shake, which Jack does enthusiastically. Sam’s eyes drift over towards Castiel, his smile widening a bit. “You sure it’s alright for me to steal him?”

Castiel hums, “While I do have some reservations about letting him out of my sight, I trust you, Sam.”

Sam folds up the swiffer duster in his hands, sending a small smile to Jack. “Ready to get started?” 

Castiel eyes Sam carefully, doing a silent check for the brand on his ribs and pleased when, like every other time he sees Sam or Dean, his magic pulses back at him in the affirmative.

Jack nods. “Yes!”

There’s a soft warmth in Sam’s eyes as he gestures for Jack to follow him into the back of the store. Castiel lingers up front for a moment and senses his brother before he enters the store, greeting him with a little nod as the door chimes.

“Hey there baby bro,” Gabriel greets, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck. He smiles sunnily. “Dropping the kiddo off?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Sam is instructing him now.” 

“Goodie,” Gabriel says. He hangs his scarf up on the coat rack next to the door. He rubs his hands together idly. “Seen Dean-o lately?”

“Not since the spell,” Castiel shakes his head, and then tilts it curiously. “Why?”

Gabriel shrugs, “I figured after that whole shebang he’d be ready for you to bond with him. You really haven’t seen him in the past couple months?”

“It is going to be an… arduous process,” Castiel says thoughtfully. He follows Gabriel as the other man starts walking through the shelves of books towards the register. Truthfully, he and Dean have texted, but infrequently. “Dean and I have not been in each other’s presence for extended amounts of time and I am… hesitant to tell him exactly what is required for us to bond. Plus, he needs to focus on his cafe. He is no longer a thug for me.”

Gabriel shrugs languorously as he moves behind the counter. He’s comfortable here in the bookstore, and Castiel has known that Sam and Gabriel share a deep bond, but it’s a little surprising to see Gabriel acting as though he is employed here. Then again, Castiel knows Sam needs all of the help he can get - hence why he has offered Jack’s services. It’s nice to see his brother exercising selflessness without being held at gunpoint, in any case. “Dean’s a suck-it-up type, baby brother. But he’s also the tell-me-the-truth type, so don’t worry about sugar coating anything. He’s a stubborn asshole, but he’s also smart.”

Castiel lifts a hand to idly massage his fingers against his left temple. “I should have told him from the start the details.”

“Shoulda told him the details from the start,” Gabriel corrects.

Castiel drops his hand and glares.

Gabriel lifts his hands in innocence, booting up the computer. “The sooner you do it, the better. Dean wandering unbonded while we can’t pinpoint Lucifer’s location is basically asking for trouble, warded or not.”

Castiel wanders over to a wall that doesn’t have a bookcase leaned up against it, the space decorated instead with a large portrait of the Boston harbor. He grabs either side of the frame so he can lift it slightly, peering behind it to make sure that the sigil painted on the wall is still in tact. Seeing no broken lines, he situates the portrait properly and then walks towards the register, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “We have done what we can. I will… inform Dean of the specifics of the ritual and then allow him to decide when we being the process.”

Gabriel shrugs idly, looking at something on the computer screen. “I don’t wanna tell you how you should or shouldn’t break things to your bee-eff, but time is of the essence, Cassie.”

“Bee-eff?” Castiel’s brows furrow.

Gabriel sends him a satisfied smirk. “Your boyfriend.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes, used to his brother’s teasings. “Dean and I do not share a romantic connection.”

“Right,” Gabriel says, then pitches his voice deep to mock his brother’s, “just a very… profound bond.”

Castiel squints, trying to decide if Gabriel is truly mocking him or pointing out what he already knows. He’s saved from making a decision when Jack comes out of the back room with a stack of books almost taller than his head, making his way carefully towards the appropriate section. “Jack,” Castiel says, “I am going to leave.”

“Ok!” Jack beams over at Castiel as he sets the books down on the floor. 

“Benny will be around to pick you up later.”

“Are you going to see Dean?” Jack asks. Castiel nods, so Jack says excitedly, “Tell him I say hello!”

Castiel nods warmly, and then sends Gabriel a less enthused gaze. “Please keep an eye on him.”

Gabriel looks miffed, “Like I don’t have better things to do?”

Castiel doesn’t grace him with a reply before he turns on his heel and walks out of the bookstore. The sun is hidden by scattered clouds today and Castiel takes a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. A breeze brings him the salty bite of the harbor and he thinks about taking a walk on the wharf, but his feet have other ideas, as they carry him down the few blocks towards _’67 IN HEAVEN_. He stands outside of the cafe for a moment, looking at the front of it. Wide, big windows with bamboo blinds frame a welcoming, worn oak door. There are a few potted plants outside soaking up the sunshine and good weather; a bench is in front of the left window, a quaint two-person picnic table in front of the right. 

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice comes from around the corner of the building. Castiel glances towards him in mild surprise, head tilting. “Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean adjusts the box on his hip, frowning. “What’s up?” 

Castiel suddenly realizes that his and Dean’s interactions have never been… social. Every time they meet it is with greater purpose, so seeing Dean looking concerned with Castiel’s sudden presence after two months of not seeing him shouldn’t be surprising. And yet, something unfurls in Castiel’s stomach from Dean’s suspicious gaze. “I…” Castiel clears his throat. “I was in the area and thought I would stop by.”

Dean’s honest confusion twists that feeling in Castiel’s gut unpleasantly. “Oh. Uh- ok. Come on in.” He moves to the door, opening it with a hand and kicking it the rest of the way open with his foot so Castiel can follow. 

Kevin and Alfie are bussing tables, the eating area busy without a single empty seat. Castiel feels a misplaced pride at seeing the cafe this popular. Kevin greets Dean and takes the box from him while Alfie collects dirty dishes from an elderly couple, sending them warm smiles and a bit of a shier turn of his lips towards Castiel when he sees him. Castiel smiles a bit awkwardly in return, well aware of the fact some of the customers are giving him less-than-pleased stares, and Dean saves him by suggesting they move into the back office.

Away from wary customers and Kevin and Alfie’s unwavering kindness, Castiel takes in a small relieved breath. Dean sits down in his rolly chair and then gestures towards a wicker chair decorated with cozy pillows, which Castiel takes a seat on, enjoying the comfort. 

“Gotta say, I’m not used to you makin’ social calls,” Dean says. He’s relaxed back in his chair, an elbow on one of the arms with his fingers rubbing at the stubble on his chin idly. He doesn’t seem on edge, but genuinely curious as to why Castiel is here. 

“I am not, either,” Castiel agrees. He shifts a little, knees together, resting his palms over the curve of them. “We have not spoken in long time.” 

Dean shrugs a little, cutting his gaze away towards his laptop. “Been busy.”

“I understand.” Castiel resists the urge to fidget or squirm. Small talk usually is something he excels at, and yet for some reason, seeing Dean without specific purpose has him floundering for anything to talk about. So, he supposes he may as well bring some business to the table in any case, and put them both out of their misery. “I’ve just come from your brother’s store. Jack is going to be assisting him part time.”

Dean lofts a brow, “No shit. Well- Sam could definitely use the help. Dunno if he can afford it…”

“Jack is working pro-bono,” Castiel assures Dean quickly. “He needs to occupy his time, now that he is no longer with Lucifer.”

“Oh,” Dean’s expression softens a little at the mention of Jack’s captivity. “Yeah, well Sam’s good at making people feel useful. Jack’ll like it there.” 

“If he does well at the bookstore, perhaps in the future he could also lend you a hand here,” Castiel suggests. 

“Maybe,” Dean nods, then smiles a bit roguishly. “Don’t wanna take advantage of him though.”

“Jack is more than happy to help,” Castiel says. “It is good use of his time and helping people is something he has always been passionate about. And…” Castiel drums his fingers over his knees. “...he could use some good role models in his life.” 

Dean snorts, “You mean you and Gabe ain’t cuttin’ it?” 

Castiel offers a wry smile in return. “You and Sam have many attributes that Gabriel and I lack. I am honored for Jack to know the both of you.” 

Dean rubs the back of his neck idly, a bit of pink on his cheeks. “Well- shoot. Alright. If he does good with Sam and thinks he can take on the extra workload, I can arrange for him to be here as a dishwasher or somethin’.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says warmly.

“So, uh,” Dean still doesn’t meet Castiel’s gaze. “About that… uh. Bond thing.” 

Castiel tilts his head to signal for Dean to continue his thoughts. It’s a good sign that Dean is bringing it up on his own; Castiel had been nervous about broaching the subject.

“What uh- what do we gotta do? It’s gonna be more complicated than this, right?” Dean says, reaching up to rub idly at his chest where Castiel’s fingerprints stain his skin under his shirt.

“It will be, yes,” Castiel says. “It is a very involved process, and it requires us to… spend time together.”

“...How much time?” Dean asks, wary.

“Six days of constant contact,” Castiel says. He won’t beat around the bush. “You would need to stay with me in my home and be in my presence constantly.”

“And by constant contact you mean- what, like, holding hands or some shit?” Dean asks. Castiel can see his hackles raising. 

“Being within my magical presence,” Castiel is quick to explain. “We do not have to touch until the very last day, when we will physically bond. It will be nothing more than a touch. As it is, my home is a… hub for magic. It is encased with my powers and generates everything we need for ritual spells.” 

“Gonna leave more weird fingerprints on me?” Dean asks with a frown.

“There will be a brand on your shoulder,” Castiel says.

“Kinda hard to get laid when someone’s mitts are tattooed into my skin,” Dean grouses, folding his arms tightly over his chest, biceps bulging against the hem of the short sleeved shirt he’s wearing today.

Castiel drops his gaze, cheeks heating unbidden. “...My apologies, Dean. I am doing my best to not interfere with your romantic life.” Castiel isn’t familiar with being uncomfortable in someone’s presence, but today he’s feeling it out fully and completely.

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, sighing softly. “I don’t- look, man. It’s fine, really. I haven’t dated anyone in a helluva long time and I ain’t gonna start up again any time soon. Got bigger things to worry about, y’know?” 

Castiel feels guilt eating away at his subconscious. He’s unsure how to express that emotion, so he keeps his face as neutral as possible as he lifts his gaze. “Whenever you are ready, we can start the ritual. Neither of us will be able to leave my home during those six days, so please make the proper accommodations for your cafe.”

Dean is giving him a weighty look, arms still crossed over his chest. He loosens them slightly though, seeming to come to some sort of resolution in his mind. “...Six days attached at the hip, huh? You sure you won’t kill me?” His eyes drop down to Castiel’s fingers, and the shift in those verdant hues has Castiel curling his digits idly in reply. 

“I do not believe it will go without a…” Castiel licks his lips, trying to think of the word. “...problem.” Not the right word, but it will work. “But we must do our best to put our differences aside.”

Dean snorts a little. “Differences.”

Castiel feels his eyes narrow a little in both confusion and concern. “...You… still do not trust me?”

“Look, Cas,” Dean sits back in his chair. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. All this shit?” he gestures idly with his hand. “I can accept. Magic, warlocks, hunters, whatever. Profound bonds and all that jazz. But I gotta put up with it because lives are at stake, and I’m not gonna sit idly by while your psycho brother tries to… take over the world or some shit.”

Castiel frowns, even though Dean’s words don’t surprise him at all. Dean is an inherently righteous individual, with a fantastic sense of right versus wrong. He had sacrificed himself, initially, for his brother - and every decision since then has been for everyone’s benefit but his own. Dean comes off as crass and nonchalant, but he has hunter’s blood in him - _Winchester_ blood - so no matter how Dean personally feels about the situation, he is going to put it in front of his own concerns.

And that is… irksome.

“Why do you dislike me so?” Castiel finds his mouth asking before his brain catches up.

Now Dean’s eyes really narrow in annoyance. “Gee Cas, I dunno. Maybe it’s ‘cause you had Benny beat the snot outta me-”

“You were told not to resist-”

“-or maybe because you basically blackmailed me into becoming a part of the mafia. You coulda easily told me the truth from the very beginning-”

“You would not have believed me-” 

“-and we coulda gotten off on the right foot.” 

“If I would have known you would have readily agreed to a magical alliance, Dean, do you not think I would have approached you with that invitation?” Castiel’s voice raises slightly, surprising himself. His knuckles are white where his fists are curled on his thighs, anger coursing through him. “I have been watching you ever since you moved to this city, waiting for opportunity to meet you. The opportunity never arose. Your brother’s bond with Gabriel was triggered in their by-chance meeting, and that set the roll in motion.”

“Ball,” Dean mutters petulantly, eyes on the floor. Mentioning Sam’s bond with Gabriel always seems to rub Dean the wrong way. Perhaps not because it is romantic - but because Sam had learned about the magic well before Dean, and had kept his own secrets. Castiel knows that Dean was hurt by Sam keeping that information away from him.

“It has been almost a year since I brought you into my charge and you are still acting as though I am victimizing you,” Castiel says, bringing his voice back to a considerate volume, although there’s still a sharp edge to his words. 

“I ain’t a victim,” Dean spits. Apparently that is a button that should not be pushed. “This situation is fucked up, Cas. I’m forty-one fuckin’ years old and everything I know about this world got flipped on a dime.” 

“That does not mean that you should meet the change with resistance,” Castiel says. He’s losing his patience. “You were born to do this, Dean. Your father raised you into it and taught you everything he could before his death. You cannot expect me to believe that you never even had the _slightest_ idea as to what you were being trained for. That you didn’t think your father was teaching you these things for a _reason_.”

“How was I supposed to know it was for _magic_? End of world, sure. Thought my old man was a doomsday prepper and knew somethin’ we didn’t about the apocalypse. But you can’t tell me that a regular fuckin’ human would put _magic_ on their radar without any sort of proof or prompting.” 

“Tell me, Dean: If I would have come to you on the street and told you your father trained you to be my magical protector, would you have asked me to elaborate, or would you have beaten me down to the ground?”

That causes Dean to pause. His jaw is clenching and unclenching with irritation, but Castiel can see the gears turning in his head. After a moment he says, “You know I can’t answer that.”

“And I cannot apologize enough for the circumstances as to how our relationship came to be,” Castiel says, standing up and smoothing the material of his slacks from where his fingers creased them. His English is surprisingly formidable for how pissed off he currently is. “We are here now, and we must focus on that in order to look towards future. How we came to be is irrelevant. It is what we _will_ be that is important, now.” 

Castiel’s eyes track Dean’s tongue when it comes out to wet his lips before he says, “...Right.”

Considering that agreement enough, Castiel glances towards the cracked door of the office and demurs. He takes a breath to collect himself. “I should take my leave. I apologize for interrupting your work day.”

Dean stands as well, rubbing his hands over his face and letting out a little sigh. He’s tense, and when his hands fall away he has a hard time meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Y’know- you should come by more. Any… time you want.”

Castiel arches a brow. He’s a little thrown by Dean suddenly inviting him around, especially since they just argued - and heatedly, at that. “I am well aware of how wary your customers are of me, Dean. They only know me as Dmitri. I do not wish to give your establishment a poor reputation.”

Dean puffs his chest a bit, brow set. “Yeah, well I know you’re Cas. And maybe if you hung around without glaring at everything people would see you ain’t so bad.” 

Castiel can’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m… not so bad?”

Dean seems to catch himself, huffing and moving to cross his arms over his chest - before he decides differently, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans. “...Yeah.” 

Something warm blooms in Castiel’s chest. The simplest change in body language means everything. “Thank you, Dean. You are not so bad, yourself.” He inclines his head and then turns on heel, exiting the office. He hears Dean let out a little whuff of laughter and Castiel smiles to himself as he leaves the back area and heads out into the cafe. 

There are still quite a few customers at the tables, and when they see him, nearly all of them avert their gazes. But Castiel lifts his head, squares his shoulders, and puts on his most friendly smile - it’s not difficult, considering the surprisingly good feelings swirling around in his stomach thanks to Dean. A few people cast him curious glances, and one girl even gives a tentative smile in return, and when Castiel leaves, he feels lighter.

There is still an underlying current of dread within him about being with Dean for nearly a week straight for the ritual, but now Castiel feels… good.

He wants to hold on to this feeling.

\--*--

The next few weeks are busy. Spring is in full swing and making way for summer - which means tourists are starting to come through in droves. This season starts to slow down for the bookstore but the cafe is ready to break sales, the bustling market carrying people’s feet in every which direction and almost always past _’67 IN HEAVEN_. Dean ends up bringing Jack on as a dishwasher and a busser, Kevin and Alfie more than thankful for the extra help. Dean has been picking up a few more shifts as well, ensuring that everything is running smoothly.

You know, before he has to spend six days straight with Castiel.

In the meantime, Dean has been focusing on Jack. Like Gabriel and Castiel there is a certain pull about the kid that keeps Dean in his orbit pretty much all the time whenever he’s working. Dean will give him pointers, make suggestions, ruffle his hair affectionately. At first he’d thought of Jack as a sort of little brother type, but the way Jack beams at him and seeks out his approval and pride has Dean feeling a more… paternal bond with him. Which is odd all on its own, because Dean has literally never felt that inclination before in his entire life - but with Jack it’s easy. Dean still gets a little gruff with him, Jack’s sunny disposition sometimes a bit hard to handle at six in the morning on baking days (Jack makes _amazing_ pie crust), but Jack takes it all in stride. 

Castiel had mentioned that he’d been worried about Jack’s emotional state after being freed from Lucifer’s hold, so Dean has been keeping an eye on that. There are a few occasions when Jack’s mask falls; when he’s bussing tables alone, free of company, wiping down the surfaces with a towel, his eyes downcast. He looks… sad, Dean thinks. Reflective. Dean has no idea the circumstance of Jack’s captivity - Castiel had made it sound like years ago Jack had _willingly_ gone with Lucifer. Which, honestly, that fact is what made Dean prickly with the kid in the first place. But the more time he spends with Jack, the more he listens to him, Dean can’t help but feel as though Jack had been mislead. It sounds like Lucifer is smarmy enough to weasel his way in or out of anything, including cronies, and given Jack’s personality, Dean would bet money that the kid was coerced into going with Lucifer. 

Not as willing as Castiel thinks. 

But Castiel must also have similar thoughts, being that he’s got Jack helping both Sam and Dean. Hunter bond or not, giving Jack a sense of normalcy seems to be everyone’s priority. And Dean can get on board with that because it provides _himself_ with a sense of normalcy. Jack has a completely different air about him than Gabriel and Castiel. Dean practically forgets he’s a warlock half of the time - especially when Jack gets clumsy and drops or breaks something.

Dean has never seen Castiel _or_ Gabriel be clumsy in any capacity. 

It’s a little weird.

In June Dean deems the cafe stable enough for him to take his “vacation”. The cafe doesn’t keep the longest hours and he has resorted to closing on Tuesdays (a surprisingly slow day, so it’s not a huge hit to their numbers) to keep everyone from getting overworked. Jack still occasionally helps Sam at the bookstore, but Sam has enlisted the help of some college dude named Aaron, so on the business end of things, everything is looking good.

Sitting back in his chair at his desk, Dean lifts his gaze to the large calendar tacked to the wall above his computer monitor. His eyes land on the date, and for a moment nothing registers, and then… _everything_ registers.

June 18th.

The night Benny abducted him and beat the snot out of him. 

The night he met Castiel, a mob boss. 

The night he gave himself over for the greater good, for the safety of his brother. 

“Shit,” Dean exhales, covering his mouth and dropping his gaze from the little square on the colorful piece of paper. 

It’s been exactly one year since his life changed in unimaginable ways. In one year he’s changed physically, mentally, emotionally- well, sort of emotionally. He’s changed his entire way of life and thinking and become aware of things that he’d never batted an eye at before. 

It’s been one year since he met the most frustrating person to ever exist. 

Knuckling his eyes, Dean huffs out a little breathy laugh. His relationship with Castiel seems to be growing in every way but good. The root of their relationship is embedded in their supposed bond, but each branch that grows from it twists wonky and weird. Every time he and Castiel seem to get along and take a step forward they take two steps back because they get on each other’s nerves. Castiel seems to be less ruffled than Dean, which only serves to make Dean _more_ irritable, and they’re on a vicious loop of push and pull. 

Dean wants to push Castiel into fucking traffic. Castiel would probably pull him along to die with him.

“Dean?”

Jack’s voice from the door causes Dean to look up from where he’d been burning holes into his keyboard with his eyes. Forcing himself to relax, Dean sits back in his chair, sending Jack a slightly terse smile. “‘Sup, buddy?” 

Dean refuses to think Jack looks adorable with an apron on over his t-shirt and jeans. “I was wondering what to do with this,” the young man says, holding out his hand, which has a wad of cash in it.

Dean arches a brow. “Well- that’s money. So uh, it either goes into the register for a purchase, or it goes in your pocket as a tip. Depending on why someone gave it to you.”

Jack frowns down at it. “A very nice old lady gave it to me after I refilled her coffee and put her croissant in a to-go box.”

Feeling tension unfurling inside him like a flower towards the sun, Dean feels his lips forming a smile. “So a tip. You keep those, Jack.” 

Jack is still frowning when he lifts his gaze to Dean. “Why would she pay more money for something she had already purchased?” 

Dean lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck, unsure how to properly explain tips. Also unsure as to why Jack doesn’t seem to know what one is. “Well- people like to reward other people for bein’ nice. Especially in customer service. If you do a good job, people leave a tip as thanks.”

“I would have accepted a verbal thank you,” Jack says, still confused.

Standing up, Dean reaches for Jack’s hand to gently close his fingers around the rumpled wad of ones. His skin buzzes slightly. “You deserve it, buddy. But if you don’t wanna keep it, you can put it in the communal tip jar for Kevin and Alfie to split up later.” 

That makes Jack smile. “Oh! Yes! Thank you, Dean. That’s a very good idea.”

They stand there holding each other’s gazes, Dean with a soft smile and Jack beaming, Dean’s hand still resting over Jack’s. Kevin clears his throat in the background, causing Dean to snap out of it and jerk his hands away from Jack.

“What,” Dean gruffs.

Kevin’s got a shit-eating grin on his features. “Well _dad_ , I’m here to tell you Benny is here to pick you up.”

Jack seems unperturbed as Dean pulls away from him to untie his apron and hang it up. “Thanks Kev. You sure you guys are gonna be ok while I’m gone? Never been gone a whole week before.”

Kevin rolls his eyes, but instead of it being attitudey it’s surprisingly fond. “Dean, we’ll be fine.” He slings a casual arm around Jack’s shoulders, his smile now turning a little teasing. “We got a chip off the old block here.” 

Jack frowns for a second, before his expression smooths out into a smile. “You are referring to the fact that Dean acts towards me in a fatherly manner.” 

Kevin blinks blankly at Jack. Dean coughs a little. 

“Uh-” Kevin pulls away from Jack and claps his shoulder awkwardly. “Yep.” He scurries away to be anywhere other than within reach of Dean’s clenching fist. 

“If you need anything you tell Sam and he can swing by Cas’s place and grab it,” Dean says. Since he and Castiel are going to be… _entangled_ (Castiel’s word), Castiel had made the suggestion that Jack stay with Sam until the ritual is over. It makes Dean especially anxious about being truly alone with Castiel for six days. 

Ugh.

But Jack nods, and Dean reaches out to give his bicep a gentle squeeze. He picks up his duffel bag off of the floor and leaves the office, nodding his departure to Kevin and Alfie as he heads through the lobby to exit out of the front door. Benny’s Mercedes is sleek and shiny as ever, the man himself leaning against the hood with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. 

“Greetings, brother,” Benny says jovially. When he smiles, Dean sees the flash of fang that he had long thought was imaginary, but now knows is very, very real.

For some reason, learning Benny was a vampire was much less shocking than learning that magic exists. Ain’t that a thing.

“Hey Benny,” Dean greets. Since it’s just him and Benny he gets into the passenger seat of the car, tossing his duffel in the back as Benny gets behind the wheel. He buckles in and stretches his legs out, scratching the side of his nose idly. “You know I coulda driven myself, right?” 

Benny sends Dean an amused glance, “F’course I know that. I just missed you.”

Dean laughs. “It’s been, like, three days.”

“Too long,” Benny says somberly.

Dean snorts and looks out the window as they start to leave the hustle and bustle of the square. “You gonna be nearby while all this is goin’ down?” 

Benny shakes his head. “Everyone’s gotta keep their distance for the ritual to work. Can’t be any distractions.”

Dean frowns. “Why would you be a distraction?”

Benny shifts a little. “All your attention’s gotta be on boss for things to settle in proper.”

Nodding, Dean tries not to wallow in the fact that he really is going to be isolated from literally everyone. Castiel is gonna encase the house in some sort of magic bubble and they won’t be able to set foot outside that barrier for the entirety of the six days. Dean can already feel himself going stir crazy. 

“D’you know what this ritual is gonna be like?” Dean asks.

Benny adjusts the poor boy cap on his head. “I ain’t got a clue, brother.”

Resting his elbow on the door, Dean props his head up on his knuckles as he turns his head to regard Benny. “How long you been with Cas, anyway?” 

“A long while,” Benny says. “I’d say goin’ on twenty years.”

Deans brows raise. “Woah.” 

“Boss saved me from a spot of trouble when we was young. I wasn’t born a vampire, y’know,” Benny confides, his voice softening a bit. “The transformation was… difficult. I couldn’t control my hunger, but I didn’t wanna hurt anyone. I ran into boss in a back alley, hungry, exhausted, and feral. I couldn’t tell you why he decided I was worth anythin’. But he saved me with a simple spell, and then promised to get me what I needed without me bein’ a monster.”

“So uh, you feed on…” Dean ventures.

“Donated blood,” Benny supplies. “Boss has a connection in the local hospital. He’s got a spell on me that makes it so I only gotta feed once a month or so, that way I’m not inconveniencing anyone who actually needs the blood.”

Dean nods. Makes sense. Then, “Why do you eat- uh, food?”

 

Benny smiles a little. “Gotta keep my blood sugar up. S’why I eat mostly fruit. Keeps me goin’. And it tastes mighty fine.” 

“Huh.” Dean nods again. “The more you know.” 

Benny chuckles. “Indeed, brother.” 

They fall silent after that. Dean reflects on Benny and Castiel’s relationship, latched onto the fact that Castiel had basically saved Benny’s life so long ago. Dean had always wondered how they came to be in each other’s lives, but he hadn’t expected it to be such a… deep story. Dean is long past the thought that Castiel is a shitty person - because he knows now Castiel has a heart of gold - but he still thinks that the guy’s an ass. No matter what, Dean’s thankful that Benny and Castiel had crossed paths; Dean is pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to do any of this without Benny’s calming, supportive presence.

Benny pulls up to Castiel’s house and stops the car, leaving it idling. “Dean.” 

Dean pauses in reaching into the backseat for his duffel. “Yeah?” 

Benny sends him a… soft look. It makes Dean’s belly squirm. “You gotta consent fully to this ritual. If at any point you feel like you can’t commit… follow your gut. And then call me. I’ll come get you.”

Blinking, Dean feels his mouth dry with nerves as he brings his duffel bag into his lap. He opens the car door with numb fingers, absorbing Benny’s words, and then sends the vampire a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “My hero.”

Benny’s serious eyes glimmer in reply. “You ain’t no damsel.”

“Damn straight,” Dean says, all bluster. He appreciates Benny’s offer and knows that the man understood the thanks underlining his sarcastic reply. Getting out of the car Dean shuts the door and waves, watching the Mercedes drive down the overgrown road and disappear into the trees.

Turning towards the house, Dean looks up at it. Still quaint. Still abnormally inviting. Steeling himself he starts climbing the porch steps, each foot falling heavier and heavier, until he’s finally standing in front of the screen door. Inhaling deeply, he opens the door and steps inside, letting his breath out through his nose.

This is it.

“Hello, Dean.”


	10. Destiny

Castiel’s house looks pretty much the same as it always does. Clean with a spread an HGTV magazine would be jealous of, the scent of different herbs and spices cloying the air. Dean’s nose picks up the faint traces of dried flowers when Castiel appears in the foyer, wearing a red Boston University sweatshirt and black track pants. He looks casual. Cozy. Comfortable. 

Dean shifts idly on his feet.

“I have prepared guest bedroom for you,” Castiel says without preamble, turning to head up the stairs. 

Dean follows at a sedate pace, unbothered by the lack of small talk. He’s never left the first level of Castiel’s house and he sort of feels… intrusive with each step he takes upwards. The first floor is communal; living room, bathroom, guest room, kitchen. It’s familiar. He’s seen it filled with laughter, anger, and emotions in between. Upstairs is new territory and when Dean hits the landing he can _feel_ the difference, too. A different charge. 

Castiel passes one door on the left, and then opens up the second one on the same side. “This will be yours,” he says softly.

Dean steps into the bedroom, glancing around, Simply decorated, similar to the safehouse with a queen bed, a dresser, and a closet. Atop the dresser is a TV and what looks like a blu-ray player, the color palette of the decor soft forest greens and greige. Dean sets his duffel bag on the floor and then turns around to see Castiel leaning in the doorway, arms folded loosely over his chest as he regards Dean. 

“Uh,” Dean starts, then stops and licks his lips. “Thanks.” 

Castiel nods his head. “I was going to start dinner but unsure as to what you would like to eat. Do you have any requests?” 

Dean shakes his head, “M’not picky. If you cook, I’ll eat and even do the dishes afterwards.”

Castiel’s lips quirk in a faint smile. “ _Eto khorosho_. Please make yourself comfortable.” He seems to hesitate and then speaks softly. “I know this is going to be difficult for us. But my home is now your home and as I said before, we do not need to be attached at the hip - merely within the same… magical sphere. There will be certain points where we must be with one another in order to complete tasks for the ritual, but you are allowed to have your own space.”

Nodding, Dean glances around. “This blu-ray got Netflix?”

Castiel’s smile widens a fraction. “Yes.” 

“Then we’ll be peachy keen,” Dean says, flashing Castiel a grin. “Now: how good a burger do you make?” 

The rest of the evening is spent with Dean showing Castiel how to form the perfect beef patties so that when they grill up they don’t shrink or get distorted. Castiel pays very close attention and lets Dean steal the recipe for the spice combination he uses to flavor them; Dean peels potatoes for homemade potato salad and Castiel fries eggs to top the burgers with and all in all the night is… pleasant. Dinner is delicious and true to his word Dean cleans up the kitchen with Castiel hovering awkwardly nearby, clearly unsure about letting someone else do chores in his own home. When the kitchen is cleared of any mess and their bellies are full Dean wanders out towards the living room, plopping down on the couch with a satisfied groan.

“Man,” Dean rubs his stomach and grins up at the ceiling. He calls out so Castiel can hear him from where he’s still in the kitchen, “I’m stuffed. You’re a good cook.”

Castiel comes into the living room with a wine glass in one hand and an open beer in the other. He sits on the couch with Dean, handing the beer over with a small, satisfied smile. “It is rare I get to cook for more than myself.” 

“Yeah, Benny’s not the best dinner date,” Dean says with a chuckle, taking the beer and having a small sip.

Castiel smiles wryly. “On the contrary, Benny is a wonderful... conversationalist.”

Dean sends Castiel an amused glance, the way he says ‘conversationalist’ rounding out in an interesting ( _not_ cute) way. “Yeah. He told me today how you an’ him came to be.”

Sipping his wine slowly, Castiel draws his knees up onto the couch to get comfortable against the arm. His sleeves are still rolled up, and the tattoos barely register for Dean anymore, but the lack of jewelry does. Castiel’s hands still look elegant, arms draped around his legs and wine glass hanging loosely, but securely in his fingers. “Benny is a good man. He did not deserve what happened to him.”

“Turning into a vamp?” Dean asks, arching a brow.

“Being attacked mercilessly in the middle of night and left for dead,” Castiel says softly. “The vampire that bit him was a rogue - he did not have nest. The only reason Benny didn’t die was because the vampire was careless and bled. If I wouldn’t have come across him, he would have been overtaken by instinct. When I saved Benny, he… wished he had died, for very long time. It was hard for him to cope with the reality of the situation.”

Dean frowns softly. Benny is so jovial and kind, sweet and warm. When he’s not kicking ass, anyway. He can’t imagine Benny ever wishing himself dead- but then again, Dean has never been turned into a monster. “Well… I’m glad you saved him, Cas. He’s good people.”

Castiel’s lips quirk a bit. “He is.”

They fall into a comfortable silence. Castiel sets his wine glass on the coffee table and moves towards the fireplace, crouching down. Dean watches idly as Castiel rearranges the logs, and then feels his eyes nearly bug out of his head when Castiel _snaps_ his fingers and flames erupt in the hearth. Castiel stands and returns to the couch, picking up his glass, sending Dean a quizzical glance when he splutters slightly.

“You just- woah,” Dean says elegantly.

Castiel seems to realize what he did, chuckling softly and looking mildly sheepish. “I will admit that was rather lazy of me, but I misplaced my lighter a few days ago and haven’t found it.”

“Hey man, that’s cool,” Dean enthuses, looking at the fire before turning his gaze towards Castiel’s tattooed fingers. “How’s it work?” 

Castiel glances down at his own fingers thoughtfully. “Magic is… complex. There are many different types. Magic you can cast with spells and rituals, and magic that simply exists with a thought.”

“So you just… thought the fire into existence?” Dean asks.

“Mmm… simply put, yes.” Castiel nods. “I channeled my thought and powers into the action. Snapping my fingers acted as a flint.”

“Huh.” Dean’s interest is piqued. “What else can you do by snapping?”

Castiel’s smile is a little shy as he lifts his right hand; he snaps his fingers and a few candles on the mantle light. Another snap and soft jazz music starts streaming from the radio. Dean lifts an impressed brow. “These are small things that require little concentration and magic. You can think of my body as the conductor, and my fingers the output. The magic is the spark.”

“Huh,” Dean says again, nodding in understanding. “Can you like- make things levitate?”

“This isn’t a magic show,” Castiel says, not with irritation. He’s still got a small smile on his features anyway. Dean can guess the answer is yes, though.

“Right,” Dean finds some humility, taking a deep swig of his beer. After a moment he asks, “You gotta be a warlock or a witch to use magic, but is it like… genetically determined if you’re a magical person?”

“More or less,” Castiel nods. “Magic is passed through bloodlines, just like hunting. However, magic can be learned by… enthusiastic individuals.” 

“So no Joe Schmoe can get into trouble,” Dean says in understanding.

“Oh, even bloodlines get in their fair share of trouble,” Castiel says, words weighty. Dean thinks about Lucifer and feels immediately cowed. “But we do what we can to pass on the proper teachings of responsibility, especially when non magic people find a grimoire to learn from.”

Dean shifts to relax back a little, resting his beer bottle on his knee. The topic of conversation turned quick, and while Dean knows the whole reason for him being here is heavy itself, he sort of wants to avoid talking about it. For now. A thought occurs to Dean from one of their more recent conversations. “Y’know, you were concerned about cockblocking me, but as long as I’ve known you I’ve never seen you sweet on anyone.”

Castiel squints.

Dean licks his lips. “Do you date?”

“Oh,” Castiel nods in realization, and then shakes his head. “I do not.”

“You ace or somethin’?” Dean asks, and then realizes that’s a very personal question, so he backtracks a little. “I mean- just. Uh. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“What is this... ‘ace’?” Castiel asks.

“Asexual,” Dean says, and then racks his brain a bit for how to describe it. “Not sexually attracted to people. Well- I mean some asexual people are sexually attracted to people, ace is actually a spectrum and not one person has a specific set or rules to follow-” At Castiel’s head tilt, Dean cuts himself off. “Have you ever dated anyone?”

“Long ago,” Castiel says simply. “My lifestyle does not allow for romantic endeavors, anymore.” 

Dean blinks a few times. “But like- you fool around, right?”

Another squint.

“Get busy? Do the horizontal tango?” 

Castiel slowly shakes his head. 

Dean presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “Cas, when’s the last time you got busy?”

Castiel’s cheeks heat up and oh, when he looks away Dean knows he’s hit the jackpot. “I do not understand why this is an important conversation.”

Dean can’t help but laugh, “It’s not- it’s not an important conversation at all, man. Just shootin’ the shit with you.” 

Castiel wrinkles his nose. “I have never understood people’s gross interest in sex lives.” 

Dean shrugs and grins, taking a deep drink of his beer. “‘Cause gossip is fun.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and drains his wine glass. When his head tips back Dean gets an eyeful of the wispy cirrus clouds spindling up his neck, the edges of the tattoos flirting with the sharp line of his jaw and blending into his stubble. He then stands up and Dean cuts his gaze away before he’s caught. “I’ve led a very complicated life. The only people who know who I truly am are my family, Benny, Charlie, and now you.” He holds out his hand for Dean’s empty bottle. “Not much room for… casual encounters.”

Dean snorts and hands over his bottle. “I get it. But if you did date, how would you identify?” 

Castiel’s gaze is cool as he replies, “Gay.” 

That takes Dean back quite a bit. His eyes widen a little in surprise, his jaw drops, and he feels something weird ignite in his stomach. A tiny, traitorous part of his brain whispers _you knew, don’t act surprised you idiot_.“Uh.” 

“And you, Dean?” Castiel asks, clearly seeing that he has the upperhand all of a sudden in the conversation. He’s huge looming over Dean, empty glass and bottle in either hand. The smile on his lips is unlike any expression Dean has ever seen him wear before. Is it… flirty? “How do you identify when you date?”

Dean’s mind flashes to every woman he’s ever slept with, but the images get distorted by making out with men at college parties, stubble under his fingertips, chapped lips against his own. “I’m…” he licks his lips, deciding to go for honesty. “...not exactly sure.” 

Castiel’s eyes search his for a moment and then he draws away, allowing Dean breathing room. “I see. Would you like another beer?”

“Got anything harder?” Dean asks with a crooked smile - and then mentally kicks himself in the ass for his poor choice of wording.

Thankfully Castiel doesn’t catch it and nods, leaving the living room. Dean slumps back against the couch, putting his hands over his face and arching his spine backwards a bit to pop out a few kinks. Good God, he’d wanted to change the subject, but that took a drastic turn. Learning Castiel’s sexual preference shouldn’t affect him so bad, but the fact of the matter is that it does, and Dean sort of hates that. Yes- he can still view Castiel as an attractive man. Y’know, objectively. 

But Dean isn’t _attracted to_ him.

Right?

“Here.”

Castiel returns and Dean moves his hands away from his face to see Castiel setting a glass carafe on the table. He pours the contents into a short tumblr and hands it to Dean, who takes it gratefully and knocks it back in one go. Castiel arches a brow. Dean does his best not to cough.

“Thanks man.”

“Mhm,” Castiel hums, sitting down on the couch again with his newly filled wine glass.

Dean rests the empty glass on his thigh, staring down at the liquor clinging to the sides. A good malt whiskey. Figures Castiel would have the good shit. Chewing his lip, he isn’t quite sure what else he’ll say without embarrassing the fuck out of himself so he stands up, tipping his empty glass towards Castiel with a small smile. “Gonna turn in. Wanna get in some good beauty rest before we start in the morning.”

Castiel nods, amenable. All traces of the flirty, somewhat dominant man who stood before Dean not five minutes ago are gone. “That is good idea. Goodnight, Dean.” 

Dean drops his glass off in the kitchen and then climbs the stairs, entering his bedroom and closing the door softly behind him. As he strips down and crawls into bed Benny’s parting words swirl around in his head; the warning had been a bit ominous, and Dean isn’t quite sure what to make of it. 

How bad can this bonding ritual be?

\--*--

Alone in the living room after Dean heads off to bed, Castiel stares into the fire crackling in the hearth. He rotates his wine glass idly in his fingers, gaze thoughtful as he picks through their conversation. Every interaction with Dean reveals more and more layers; the man is much more complicated than he lets on. And, surely, much more intelligent. Things that Castiel had always known, but is quite pleased to experience firsthand in close quarters. 

Castiel finishes his wine and stands up, moving into the kitchen. He rinses out their glasses and then sets them in the rack to dry before he pads on bare feet towards the locked door that leads down to the basement, pausing in front of it.

Putting his hand on the polished alder wood door, Castiel exhales slowly, channeling its energy. It calms him and readies him for what lies on the other side come morning. His hand rests on the knob and the mechanism unlocks with a thought, Castiel opening the door and passing through. The steps barely creak as he descends them, the basement opening up into a furnished area the size of his living room. It’s decorated in earth tones - beige, green, brown, blue - and the altar on the far side of the room sits placidly, awaiting offering. 

Standing in the middle of the throw rug lined up with the altar, Castiel puts his hands in front of his chest in prayer. His eyes close, his spine straightens, and he recites an incantation under his breath. Six candles lie in patience atop the altar, their positioning forming a circle, wax held in brass. 

Castiel opens his eyes, blue irises shifting to a softly glowing cerulean. A seventh candle in center the circle lights, the flame flickering and sparking greens and blues until it settles into a steady black. Breathing slowly Castiel drops his hands from in front of his chest, losing his posture and rolling his shoulders as he tries to get his neck to pop. A blink and his eyes are back to normal, glancing around the room; an unassuming couch, a worn recliner and a coffee table. It looks like a normal space, save for the altar against the wall, and he wonders what Dean will think of it.

Dean.

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose idly and moves over towards the recliner, sitting down heavily in it. So much has changed in just a year - and Castiel isn’t lost on the date today, either. He knows it’s been exactly one year since he met Dean face to face in the warehouse, the man bloodied and battered and Castiel feeling a deep-seated greed at finally having him at his whim. 

Shaking his head, Castiel tries to dispel those thoughts - those feelings. He, too, has changed in a year. He’s gone from power hungry and bent on revenge to leveled out and tactical in his approach to finally usurping Lucifer. Dean’s presence has been a catalyst in many ways. Not only have Castiel’s powers surged, but they’ve found balance. He’d always known that Dean was to be his bonded, but actually witnessing and feeling the effects of having the man in his presence has Castiel believing with his entire being that this is how things are supposed to be. 

There are other ways in which Castiel has changed, as well. Dean’s presence in his life has been… cathartic. Things get rocky with the man, no doubt; there are times when Castiel is sure they’ll come to blows from an argument. But in the moments where Dean lets his guard down, lets himself just _be_ , Castiel finds himself doing the same. It’s a type of relaxation he’s never felt. Castiel is pretty solid in his identity and who he is as a person, but Lucifer’s malignant actions have buried a part of Castiel away. With every smile from Dean, every laugh, every off-color joke… that hidden part of Castiel gets pulled out bit by bit. 

He can’t remember the last time he’s smiled so much. 

Ever.

And perhaps that’s a bit cruel towards Benny, Charlie, and Gabriel - but there is no deeper connection than a warlock and his hunter, his protector. They all knew this was going to happen. 

Castiel remembers thinking about what Dean Winchester would be like. He remembers being envious that Lucifer had found John after years of searching, and so young, too - he remembers wondering if he and Dean would have the type of relationship the Krushnics had written fantastical novels about. And then, of course, he remembers Lucifer being rejected by John, and the subsequent spiral it sent him into. John had sensed something dangerous in the warlock and had wisely steered away, setting forth an unchangeable chain of events. 

Castiel had always known something dark lurked within Lucifer. He, and the rest of his family, had hoped that finding his bonded would be what he needed to find the _good_ inside of him. But John had rejected Lucifer, cast him aside and declared him unfit for service, and Lucifer had _snapped_. Magic keeps the Krushnics young and virile, but the unbonded human hunter John aged and grew, fleeing into hiding to prevent Lucifer from finding him and taking him forcefully. In hiding John found love, cultivated a family, and started to prepare his own children for their destiny.

It’s admirable, really, that even though John’s experience with Lucifer was tainted, he still chose to train his children. Winchesters are bred with honesty, integrity, and a type of grit nonexistent within regular humans. Castiel has his suspicions that John Winchester trained his children not only to fulfill their destinies as hunters…

...but to also fulfill a destiny to wipe out the evil that Lucifer planned to unleash on the world.

The altar vibrates minutely. Castiel’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing as he watches the poplar wood tremble under an invisible force, the candles atop quivering in their holders. The black flame of the single lit candle wavers for the briefest of moments and then as quickly as it started, the commotion stops, a faint ringing resounding in Castiel’s ears. 

Standing up, Castiel presses his hands to either side of his head to quell the ringing. He moves towards the altar and reaches out to touch it; the wood is calm, unbothered, and Castiel frowns softly. He passes his fingers through the black flame and collects the magic in his fingertips, rubbing his index finger and thumb idly. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Unsettled, Castiel leaves the altar to climb the steps. He takes care to lock the basement door once he’s in the kitchen and then picks up his phone off of the counter, dialing Benny without thinking about it. 

“Boss?” Benny greets.

“Tomorrow make every stop,” Castiel instructs. “Check all of the hex bags and sigils in the women’s houses.” It’s a bit of a crazy request - there are more than twenty women on Castiel’s watch list.

“Is everything alright?” Benny asks, voice tinging with concern.

“I… don’t know,” Castiel says carefully. “But I would rather be safe than sorry.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Benny says. 

The call disconnects. Castiel sets his phone down on the wireless charger next to the wine fridge tucked into the corner of the kitchen and then heads up the stairs, suddenly feeling drained. As he passes by Dean’s bedroom he pauses, leaning to press his ear to the door; soft snores greet him and Castiel finds himself smiling minutely, feeling relief in the fact that Dean is at least comfortable enough to sleep.

Tonight will be the last restful sleep he has for six days, after all.

Castiel retreats to his bedroom, blue eyes flashing bright in the dark. 

The ritual has already begun.

\--*--

When Dean wakes up he feels… unusually rested. He opts to stay in his sleep clothes when he glances at the clock and sees it’s just before eight; Castiel is probably awake, but Dean is feeling the itch to make a nice breakfast spread. 

This house instills an odd sense of domesticity in him and instead of fighting it, Dean decides he should embrace it.

Clad in his blue plaid pajama pants and a black tank top Dean pulls on a pair of socks and ruffles his hair with a hand as he leaves his bedroom to head downstairs. The house is quiet, the sound of birds chirping floating in through a few of the cracked windows on the main floor. He doesn’t see Castiel in the living room, and a bit of wandering doesn’t reveal the man’s location at all, so Dean shrugs and starts helping himself to the cupboards and fridge. Today he’s feeling spinach omelettes and bacon. 

When he opens the fridge and rummages around, he snorts at the fact Castiel has turkey bacon. Figures. 

He closes the door and nearly jumps out of his socks when Castiel is standing _right there_.

“Jesus!” Dean gasps, slapping the pack of turkey bacon against his chest in a weird attempt to try and quell his pounding heart. “What the hell, man?” 

Castiel doesn’t look bothered at all, despite Dean’s outburst. “Apologies. I thought you heard me coming.” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean moves towards the stove, grumbling. “You’re like a freaking ninja, dude. Where you been?” 

“The basement,” Castiel supplies. He sits at the breakfast counter, resting his elbows on the surface so he can lean over a bit. He’s dressed in jeans and a black polo - a _polo_ for Christ’s sake - and Dean pointedly doesn’t let his gaze wander over the tattoos winding up his arms or creeping up from his unbuttoned collar. He’s gotta control himself.

“What’s in the basement?” Dean asks, turning around slapping a few slices of turkey bacon into a pan and setting it aside so he can start whisking some eggs.

“My altar,” Castiel says.

Dean arches a brow, casting Castiel a dubious look. “Uh- like for… Satan?”

Castiel levels Dean with his steady gaze. “You know I’m a white witch, Dean.” 

Snorting, Dean grins. “Hehe, witch.” 

He knows Castiel is rolling his eyes without even looking. “What are you cooking?” 

“Spinach omelettes and this sorry excuse for bacon,” Dean says, gesturing towards the turkey bacon in the pan. 

“I regulate my sodium intake,” Castiel says, shrug in his voice. Dean gives his own eye roll as he turns the burner on low and then grabs the carton of spinach to start sifting through it. “I often wonder how high you cholesterol is.” 

Dean tosses Castiel a grin over his shoulder, “Not high enough, I ain’t dead yet.” 

“We will perform a cleanse of your body,” Castiel says casually.

“A-... cleanse…” Dean rotates the pan with the eggs in it, swirling around the mixture. “I dunno man, last time I went on a cleanse with Sammy I couldn’t stop pooping for three days.” He grins to himself, knowing that Castiel probably doesn’t appreciate the TMI.

“A simple spell,” Castiel elaborates. Damn. Apparently that wasn’t TMI. “To clear you of any ailments your body is currently suffering from.”

“You can do that?” Dean asks, turning to give Castiel a surprised look. “With magic?” 

Castiel nods, standing up from the stool and rounding the island so he can get at the coffee maker. “Using magic to keep oneself healthy is common.”

Dean purses his lips a little as he grabs a spatula from the utensil holder. Castiel clanks around a little as he grabs two mugs and fills them with coffee; he leaves Dean’s on the counter by the stove and then retreats back to his seat at the island, quiet as a mouse. “So-” Dean isn’t quite sure how to ask this question without sounding crazy. Then again magic is kinda crazy, so: “Are you immortal?” 

“In a sense,” Castiel says. “Through magic magical people keep their bodies in healthy condition and in a state of delayed aging so they may practice magic without worrying about damaging themselves.”

Dean turns to squint at Castiel. “How old are you?”

Castiel hides his smile behind his mug as he takes a sip of coffee, elbows on the island. 

Dean squints a little more. “For…ty?” His gaze sweeps over Castiel’s features. Well- the guy _looks_ forty - at least very close to Dean’s own age. Maybe he stopped the clock then? 

Castiel hums. “You have aged well, Dean. You do not look a day over thirty.” 

Dean demurs slightly at the change in direction as he turns back to the eggs. “Yeah- Benny’s boot camp kinda kicked my ass back into gear. Fell off the gym wagon for a while.”

“Not only in your body,” Castiel says, “but also your face. Genetics dealt you and your brother a wealthy hand.” 

Don’t blush don’t blush don’t blush. “Uh- yeah, I mean… dad and mom didn’t really look their age, either…” Castiel doesn’t need to know that he has a decent skincare routine set up. 

“I should have started using my magic on myself much sooner,” Castiel says, a bit of a wistful note to his voice. “You would be correct. My body stopped aging on my fortieth birthday, when I realized I should have been working harder to find Lucifer.” 

Dean tries to sound casual as he adds spinach to the mostly cooked egg, folding it over itself. “So- your body stopped at forty. But you’re actually…” 

“I was the same age as your father when Lucifer attempted to bring him into his charge.” Castiel says. 

Dean quickly does the math, and then almost drops the spatula in surprise. “Holy shit dude, you’re like, sixty-three!?”

Castiel’s head tips, eyes amused as he takes a silent sip of his coffee.

With wide eyes Dean turns back to the omelette, grabbing a plate and setting it up with a few slices of bacon. He moves to put the plate in front of Castiel along with a fork, frowning deeply as he looks over Castiel’s features. His eyes are turned slightly down at the corners but still bright and alert, the bags under his eyes look more from a job well done versus lack of sleep, and the crow’s feet stretching towards his temples tell of a time when Castiel used to smile a lot more. 

Castiel said he stopped aging on his fortieth birthday. John Winchester died when he was forty. Dean can sense misplaced guilt from a mile away. Something in Dean loosens.

Castiel meets his gaze, expression soft, and Dean’s dumb ass says, “And you’re a _virgin_?” 

Castiel immediately scowls. “I am not a _virgin_ , Dean. Of everything we have shared, _that_ is what you are thinking about?” 

“Man, I’m sorry-” Dean raises his hands innocently, ducking away so he can start making his own omelette. “Just- a good lookin’ guy like you. I mean, you lived through the seventies.” 

“I do not understand what that has to do with my current lack of sex life,” Castiel’s voice rumbles with irritation. The scrape of his fork against his plate lets Dean know he’s at least eating. “I had bigger things to worry about back then- like your father rejecting my brother’s bond.” 

Dean winces a little. “Yeah, well. If dad was good at anything, it was bein’ bullheaded about things he didn’t like.” 

“It was the correct choice,” Castiel says. “Your father was resourceful enough to avoid Lucifer’s wrath. And while that was beneficial to him, as well as you when you were born, it led us to great suffering. Without your father Lucifer could not rise to full power, and it was then he decided to turn to dark magic.” 

Dean finishes cooking his omelette and fixes his plate, grabbing his mug of coffee and moving so he can sit next to Castiel at the island. He frowns a little as he pokes at his omelette. “What woulda happened if dad woulda bonded with him?” 

“While Lucifer is currently a force to be reckoned with, if your father would have said yes to him, I’m afraid the world as we know it simply wouldn’t exist.” Castiel says, voice grave. “Lucifer is bent on creating a chain of events that will lead to magic being the primary force in the world. He thinks humans are weak and beneath us. That we should exterminate them, not protect them.” Dean feels his gut drop. “Had your father said yes, that future would have been a reality. But since he said no, Lucifer has had to take other measures.” 

“Cas,” Dean frowns a little. “Why is Lucifer kidnapping people?” 

“He is draining their life force,” Castiel says softly, staring at his plate. “Collecting every bit from men who are the same age as your father. He is preparing for a spell.” Castiel twirls his fork in his fingers. “I believe he is going to try and resurrect John Winchester, and force him into a bond so that he may accomplish his goal of destroying non magic humans. If he does not succeed, then all the souls of the taken men will come close to a substitute.” 

Dean feels an icy chill race down his spine, anger bubbling in his gut. “Even I know raising the dead is- it’s wrong, ain’t it? Forbidden?” He’s imagining his father rising from the dead like some glorified zombie, covered in dirt and maggots with half of his face rotting off-

Castiel nods. “Necromancy is as dark as a magical person can go. Lucifer will go through any ends necessary to get his bonded, the real thing or not, so he may rise to full power.”

“Means,” Dean says. He forces those ugly thoughts out of his head.

Castiel finally looks at him.

Dean tries to lighten the mood a bit, his lips quirking into the smallest of smiles. “Any means necessary.” His heart rate has spiked. He’s trying to pass off his anger, his fear, but he knows it’s not really working. Can Lucifer truly bring John Winchester back from the dead? And if he can’t, can he really use the souls he’s collecting as some sort of magical amplifier?

Castiel doesn’t return the smile, but his expression softens as he straightens on his stool and lifts his coffee to his lips for another drink. “It is imperative that we see our bonding ritual through to the end. We cannot allow Lucifer to complete his work.” 

Nodding, Dean suddenly feels like he can’t eat a bite. He stares down at the beautiful spread he’d made, and then picks up his coffee for a deep drink. If Lucifer brings John back from the dead to rise to full power, Dean can’t fathom the consequences. Not only that, but Dean is very aware that what gets dead should stay dead.

Including his own father. No matter how much his heart squeezes at the thought of seeing his dad one last time, being able to tell him thank you, that he loves him, that he’s taking good care of Sammy just like he was taught - no matter how much he aches for that, he can’t allow it to happen.

He won’t allow Lucifer to desecrate the memory of his father by raising him to do evil.

Draining his cup in a few swallows, he lets out a breath and straightens as well, looking at Castiel with a renewed burst of energy settling inside his chest.

“Well then- let’s get this show on the road.” 

Castiel’s lips finally quirk in a tiny grin. “Let’s.”

\--

Castiel’s basement isn’t as creepy as Dean thought it’d be. The altar up against the wall with a single candle burning is really the only sign of witchcraft down here, and honestly if Dean didn’t know that Castiel is a warlock, he’d think it was just eclectic decor. It’s very earthy; lots of potted plants, mismatched wicker furniture and throw pillows, all in a pleasant color scheme that matches when looked at as a whole, but not so much individually. He helps Castiel rearrange the furniture, pushing it against the walls in the room to open up the space as much as possible, and then he helps Castiel roll up the large area rug. Dean’s eyes go to the floor as they kneel and roll, his eyes widening slightly at the sigils and symbols painted onto the neatly polished wood in red paint. They get the rug rolled up and set aside and Dean starts walking slowly around the painted circle, eyes taking everything in. It looks… satanic… but Dean knows better. Castiel is a white witch, as he says. 

Still, this circle gives Dean the heebie jeebies.

“Our ritual must take place within this circle,” Castiel says. “Please alleviate your bladder now so that we may not be interrupted.”

Dean looks up at Castiel, who is rolling up the sleeves of his sweater. “Uh. How long is it gonna take?”

“We will be within the circle for six hours out of every day,” Castiel says, still looking down at the floor. 

“Six…” Dean lets out a low whistle. He can’t remember the last time he _sat still_ for six hours that didn’t involve sleeping. Six hours a day for six days, huh? “Uh, ok then.” He moves into the half bath tucked into the corner of the basement, shutting the door behind him. Rubbing his hands over his face he leans against the door, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. 

The more he learns about Lucifer, the more he wants to punch him in his stupid face. The more he learns about this ritual, the more he wants to turn tail and run. Benny had told him that if he decides to quit at any time that he’d come and get him, and Dean is starting to get a very funny feeling that though Castiel is acting casually, there’s gonna be more to this ritual than sitting in a warded circle for six hours a day. Moving to the sink he splashes some cold water on his face and gives himself a little scrub, and then he looks into the mirror at his reflection. 

Dean still doesn’t have the greatest grasp on magic and how it affects the world around him. He’s only exposed to what Castiel decides to show him; he knows that hex bags keep them safe, the weird stamp on his and Sam’s ribs keep them invisible, and that Castiel can light the fireplace from across the room… but he’s about to be fully exposed. When he leaves this bathroom he’s going to be making the first step towards, what he’s sure is, an unchangeable destiny. 

It’s a heavy weight. 

Hands on the counter he straightens and stretches, arching his back to get his spine to pop in a few places. He thinks about the little missions he’s gone on with Benny under the disguise of mafia; shaking up ruffians, threatening idiots, toting guns and knives. Thinks about his first time shooting a dude in the leg, and the last time he punched a guy in the face for sassing Benny when he asked a yes or no question. Dean’s time as a mafia member has been limited yet limitless, and now that he knows what’s really going on, he sees it as the final stages of the training it was meant to be.

The final stages of training John Winchester didn’t have a chance to put them through before he died.

True exposure to the world. Real life exercises. 

Loyalty to the Krushnics.

Dean’s pretty sure his dad wouldn’t want him to shoot a guy in the leg just because he was getting annoyed, but then again, he’s pretty sure his dad would just pretend to be mad to cover up how proud he was that Dean didn’t shoot him in the head. 

“Dad,” Dean whispers, and then promptly puts a hand over his mouth. Belatedly he realizes his eyes are stinging, his frame shaking slightly as he leans against the sink. The thought of Lucifer bringing his dad back makes Dean both sick and excited at once. On the one hand, he could have him back; on the other hand a part of him knows that John wouldn’t... be the same if brought back. Who knows what death does to people? And did John go to heaven... or hell? Dean knows his father wasn’t a virtuous man; it’s not like he had a golden ticket upstairs. 

“Don’t lose it now,” he mutters to himself. He slaps his cheeks a few times, dries the leftover wetness on the towel on the rack, and then opens the door and nearly jumps out of his own flesh when Castiel is on the other side. “Jesus FUCK, Cas!” Dean yells, clutching at his shirt over his heart. “Knock it off!”

Castiel frowns softly. “Apologies. I just heard…” he trails off when a bit of panic flashes in Dean’s eyes. “Never mind. Are you ready?” 

“Well I didn’t have to piss before but now I sure as hell gotta,” Dean grumbles, swinging the door shut again. He tries to calm his breathing, and then relieves himself and washes his hands. This time when he opens the door Castiel is in the circle, two comfortable looking pillows settled within the painted ring. “Alright. Tell me what I gotta do.” 

“Have a seat,” Castiel says. He himself sits down on the pillow by his feet, arranging himself in a meditative pose.

Dean eyes the way Castiel’s feet are arranged and doesn’t even bother trying to mimic it, knowing he’ll probably pull something. He sits criss cross and rests his palms on his knees, frowning. “My back is gonna hurt a lot after this, ain’t it?” 

Castiel offers a small smile. “More than likely. I have a lovely tub in the master bathroom if you would like to make use of it this evening.” 

“Sweet talkin’ me already and we ain’t even bonded yet,” Dean says with a wink. “Aw.” 

With a roll of his eyes Castiel presses his thumbs to his middle fingers, exhaling slowly. “All I need from you, Dean, is to sit with your eyes closed, and listen.” 

Dean blinks in surprise, and then wiggles a little to get as comfortable as possible on the cushion before closing his eyes as instructed. “Alright.” 

Silence falls over them swiftly. The more Dean settles into his seat and his body, the more his ears open of their own accord. He’s never been one to meditate, but something about being in Castiel’s presence like this is… eerily calming. So, he listens. He hears the candle flickering in the background; he hears the fridge kick on upstairs; he hears Castiel’s breaths, even and deep, and finds himself mimicking them. He’s unsure how much time passes before he hears Castiel’s deep voice whispering in Latin. Dean doesn’t really know the language, but he picks up enough words easily enough - two, sun, moon, earth. Well, that’s it really. Castiel seems to be repeating a mantra of sorts - a spell - and Dean allows himself to tune out the white noise around them so he can instead focus on Castiel’s voice and words. 

There’s a slight shift beneath him, and Dean frowns a little, trying to get comfortable on his cushion once more. Another shift, and Dean wiggles again. On the third shift Dean suddenly feels the absence of his cushion and he blinks his eyes open in surprise, looking down.

He’s not on a cushion, he’s on grass.

He looks around.

He’s not in Castiel’s basement anymore.

He’s in a wooded glen, wildflowers swaying gently in a breeze. Sucking in a surprised breath, Dean strains his ears to listen. Like a distant echo he still hears Castiel’s chanting, but it moves on the breeze, in one ear and out the other. Carefully, Dean stands. Is this a hallucination? Or has Castiel transported him somewhere else? He had told Dean to sit still and listen. Is Dean’s body still in the basement and his spirit here? 

Oh, man.

Castiel’s presence, effervescent and just in Dean’s periphery, keeps Dean from fully freaking out. Castiel is here, but not where Dean can see him. 

“John, slow yer roll!” 

Dean whips around at the sound of a voice coming through the trees. He watches in disbelief as Bobby, who looks about eighteen, enters the glen. Coming out of the trees to his left is sixteen year old John Winchester, fire in his eyes, fury in his steps. He recognizes the men from old, dusty photos Bobby kept in photo albums in his book hoard. 

Dean’s mouth dries up, his brain short circuits. What is happening? 

“We have to hurry,” John snaps. “He gave us a specific time to meet him and I have a feeling if we’re late, something bad will happen.” His hair is neatly combed and greased, his clothes clean. He looks nothing like the rough and tumble John Winchester Dean grew up with. 

Dean’s heart aches.

“Somethin’ bad’ll happen anyway.” Bobby looks pretty clean, too. Nothing like the scruffy old codger Dean and Sam grew to know and love. “We didn’t even bring any real weapons!” 

John is walking steadfastly right towards where Dean is standing. Dean’s heart slows to a stop in his chest. 

John isn’t looking at him, he’s looking _through_ him.

“Dad?” Dean whispers.

John walks right through Dean’s body. Dean feels an icy chill wrack his frame and then he spins on his heel, watching John continue on through the meadow with Bobby hot on his trail.

“Don’t need no weapons,” John says. “We’re just here to talk.”

Dean starts following them. Is this real? Is he looking in on an event that happened fifty years ago?

“Since when does Lucifer wanna just _talk_?” Bobby asks, snorting. “And it ain’t smart to meet that guy without a backup plan!” 

John suddenly turns to jab his finger into Bobby’s chest, causing Bobby to stutter to a stop. “I _know_ , Bobby! We didn’t bring any weapons. But do you think we came unprepared?”

Dean hangs back about five feet, just in case. He’s pretty sure he’s very invisible and has dropped in on a past event, but he doesn’t want to get too close for comfort. Besides, seeing his dad, so young and full of energy… it’s strange. Dean doesn’t trust himself to not try to make contact. Every other soft rustle of the breeze carries Castiel’s chanting on its breath, the only thing keeping Dean from doing anything stupid.

“Unless you got a gun stuffed up your butt, yeah, I _do_ think we came unprepared.”

John reaches into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a two hex bags. “Put this in the pocket of your shirt,” he says, handing one of the bags to Bobby.

“A hex bag ain’t gonna do crap,” Bobby says in disbelief. 

“Gabriel made them for us,” John says.

“That don’t make me feel any better!”

“You got your Swiss Army knife.”

“It ain’t gonna kill a _warlock_!”

Dean snorts. Even this long ago Gabriel was still a trickster. But Bobby must consider it good enough because he and John fall back into step and make their way through the trees. Dean continues to follow them, trying to figure out where they are; none of this flora is native to Texas, that much he can tell. John practically raised him and Sam in the woods. The walk takes about ten minutes, and even though Dean is - apparently - an apparition of some sort, he still stumbles over tree roots and has to dodge when Bobby snaps a branch back at him. The next clearing they come to is occupied by a single person, John and Bobby both stopping at the treeline. Dean stands next to John, wanting to be able to see and hear everything that happens. 

“Johnny boy,” the man standing in the clearing cajoles, “so good of you to come.” 

Dean squints a little to get a better look at the guy. Tall, thin, blond hair… This must be Lucifer. He’s young like John and Bobby, but Dean immediately senses the danger that lingers in the air around him. That must be why John and Bobby stopped so far away from him. Don’t have to be a warlock to feel that gross vibe.

“You didn’t give me a choice, Lucifer,” John says. 

Bobby stays tense. So does Dean. 

Lucifer holds his hands out to the side placatingly. “Why don’t you come a little closer so we can discuss our arrangement?”

“We’re fine right here,” Bobby says. 

Dean silently agrees. This is the first time he’s seeing Lucifer, and even though he’s in some sort of weird time travel alternate reality, he can sense the evil even in this astral form. This can’t be good. 

“Suit yourself,” Lucifer says, shrugging and dropping his hands. “The ritual must begin on the next full moon.” 

“I’m not bonding with you, Lucifer,” John says. The strength in his voice belies the slight tremor in his clenched fists. 

“It’s amusing that you seem to think you have a choice,” Lucifer says conversationally.

“I _do_ have a choice,” John bites out. “You can’t bond with someone against their will. And you do _not_ have my consent. I will not serve you. Your black magic will not touch me.”

That seems to be exactly the wrong thing to say, because in a flash Lucifer is suddenly standing directly in front of John, fisting his hands in the slightly smaller man’s flannel and lifting him an inch off of the ground. “You _will_ serve me,” Lucifer snarls. “Only the first born son in the Winchester line can withstand my power.”

Dean tenses on reflex only to remember that he can’t actually do anything. Anger roots deep within him, frustration spiraling at the fact he can’t do anything to change whatever is about to unfold. 

John reaches up and grabs Lucifer’s wrists, but doesn’t try to twist away. He glares back, defiant. “Over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged,” Lucifer says, a wicked smile curling his lips. 

“I will _never_ bond with you, Lucifer.” John says, his voice unwaveringly deep and sure. “And I will ensure that no one ever does.”

“Your bloodline _belongs to us_!” Lucifer yells, rage trembling his body as he gives John a shake. “It is your _destiny_!”

“I would rather die!” John barks back. “I would die and end the bloodline before letting you wreak havoc on humans!” 

“ _Then you seal your fate_ ,” Lucifer hisses. He lets go of John with one hand, raising it up high, electricity passing and crackling across his fingertips. “If I can’t have you, no one can.”

Bobby moves out of the corner of Dean’s eyes, and Dean sees his shirt unbuttoned, chest and hand covered in blood. “ _APAGE!_ ” He slaps his hand to his chest and Lucifer lets out a mangled, pained yell before disappearing in a flash of black smoke, John falling to his knees on the ground and gasping for breath. 

“You friggin’ idiot!” Bobby yells, kneeling next to John and holding him upright. His bloody Swiss Army knife is on the ground next to his knee, and where he touches John he leaves dark red streaks.

John shakes his head and pushes Bobby away so he can vomit into the grass, stomach bile passing his lips and making his expression scrunch up. Dean feels immense relief that Bobby had managed to banish Lucifer (how did he do that?), and wishes desperately that he could help his shaken father. Damn it. 

“Thanks Bobby,” John says, sending a weak smile up at his friend.

Bobby’s voice is rough but his eyes are soft, “You just signed your death warrant.” 

“If it means Lucifer can’t rise to full power, I’ll do it,” John says with conviction. “I will die and take the bloodline with me.” 

Both boys sit on their butts on the grass, careful to avoid John’s stomach contents. Dean feels his own knees slightly weaken at his father’s words. John was really so willing to die at this moment in time to prevent Lucifer from rising - but he didn’t. And he continued the bloodline even though right now, in this _exact moment in time_ , he swears to end it. 

“Why didn’t you stop the bloodline?” Dean finds himself asking out loud, even though no one can hear him. He feels anger starting to rise again, and he kicks at a fallen log, yelling, “Why didn’t you _stop this_!?”

The world tilts on its axis and Dean suddenly feels vertigo, stumbling to his knees and dry heaving. He closes his eyes tight, trying to make the nausea go away - when he opens his eyes he’s on his hands and knees inside the circle in the basement, panting heavily, Castiel hovering over him. 

“Dean?” Castiel asks.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dean stands up immediately, even though his legs are threatening to give out on him. He steps outside of the circle and immediately starts pacing, running his hands through his hair. “What the _fuck_ just happened? How long has it been?”

“Six hours,” Castiel says calmly as he stands as well. 

Dean walks back into the circle, crowding into Castiel’s space, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Why did I need to see that?”

“Because you need to understand the full picture,” Castiel says, undeterred by Dean’s anger and physical proximity. “What you just witnessed was the first time your father said no and set into motion the chain of events that lead us to where we are today.” 

“You sayin’ this is all my dad’s fault?” Dean spits, recoiling. “ _Your_ psychotic brother was gonna magic date rape my dad into bonding with him!” 

“But he did not, because your father and Bobby were much smarter than him,” Castiel says patiently. “At that time Lucifer was powerful, but he was stupid and underestimated your father. He let his strength blind his intelligence.”

“Dad said he’d die before letting Lucifer rise,” Dean once again gets into Castiel’s space. “Why didn’t he?” He grabs the front of Castiel’s shirt, twisting the fabric and giving Castiel a jerky shake. “ _Why_?” He searches Castiel’s eyes desperately. “What did he mean about the first born sons?”

“Even Lucifer had said that death would not destroy their bond,” Castiel says evenly, his eyes finally narrowing in irritation. Incredible that he’s seemingly unaffected by Dean’s anger and proximity. “Your father must have realized that no matter what, his fate was to bond with Lucifer. Dying would mean nothing if Lucifer had the means to bring him back. And that is exactly what will happen if we do not stop him. The first born Winchesters, the prodigal sons, are the only vessels able to contain the black magic that Lucifer wields.” Castiel reaches up to wrap his fingers around Dean’s wrists, squeezing. “Let me go, Dean.” 

“He died for _nothing_ ,” Dean says, a sob breaking the anger in his voice. 

“Your father died for _everything_ ,” Castiel counters, his voice rising in volume and lowering in pitch. “Your father sired the two strongest hunters in _generations_. He fulfilled his destiny.” 

“I refuse to believe that my dad’s only duty in life was to spit out me n’ Sam and then _die_ only so some nutso can do some weird voodoo and bring him back! He didn’t have two boys so he could risk them- risk _me_ being some sort of battery for Lucifer!” Dean’s losing his grip, his emotions colliding with each other so furiously he sees stars every time he closes his eyes.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel’s voice growls. The walls around them vibrate, Castiel’s blue blue eyes flashing bright white. A little shock passes from his fingers into Dean’s skin where he’s still holding onto the hunter’s wrists, and Dean immediately feels a foreign, calm sensation wash through him. “What did you learn? What did you see?”

Dean blinks a few times at the subject change, but doesn’t relax his grip on Castiel’s shirt, even as he feels himself calm, guided by some outside force. “I learned- fuck. I saw Bobby. He did- he did something to make Lucifer pop out of existence.” 

“A blood sigil,” Castiel supplies. “Bobby wasn’t a warlock, but he knew many spells. He and your father were an incredible team.” He quiets some. “Lucifer will not stand for me bonding with the Winchester that he believes should be his.”

Finally, Dean starts to weaken his grip a little. “Why did you show me this, Cas?” 

“I had to show you the beginning,” Castiel says, “so that you can understand how it must end.” 

\--

For the rest of the day Dean avoids Castiel as much as possible. It’s not a hard thing to do; Castiel’s house is plenty big, and when Dean had stormed out of the basement after the ritual Castiel had opted to stay behind. A few hours pass in relative silence, broken only by the music Dean plays from his tinny phone speakers. He’s not allowed to contact the outside world, but Castiel didn’t say anything about Pandora.

Dean explores the house, checking out all of the rooms (except for Castiel’s; he’d opened that door and his senses had been assaulted by lavender and patchouli, making his breath catch and cheeks flush. He’d shut that door immediately.), and then finally he makes his way outside as the sun starts to set. 

The porch wraps around the entire house and Dean walks the length of it, observing what can only be the magical barrier keeping them safe from the rest of the world. It looks like a bubble, Dean thinks to himself, watching the rainbow of colors shift and morph in the changing light of the day’s end. He can see through it, and the myriad of colors are only visible when he focuses on an area for an extended length of time; anyone just passing by wouldn’t be able to see it. The bubble is tight - there’s only about five feet between the transparent film and the porch railing. Dean thinks he’d feel trapped if he couldn’t see through it.

He sort of feels trapped, anyway.

Castiel still hasn’t emerged from the basement. 

Dean decides to start cooking dinner. He throws together a scampi with vegetables and homemade garlic bread, and by the time he’s dishing two plates, the basement door finally opens and Castiel enters the kitchen. The door shuts quietly behind him and Castiel’s nose is tilted up a bit, clearly interested in the delicious aroma filling the air. 

“Dinner,” Dean says uselessly. Obviously it’s dinner. 

Castiel moves towards the kitchen table, where Dean has set their places. They both sit down, Castiel at the head of the table and Dean opposite, two chairs between them on either side. Dean doesn’t wait to start eating, twirling his pasta onto his fork. After a few bites he glances up and sees Castiel sitting with less than stellar posture, gaze on his plate, hands resting on either side of it on the table.

Frowning a little, Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “You alright, bud?” 

Castiel drums the fingers of his left hand idly against the table. Dean’s eyes track the movement, watching tanned, tattooed fingers shift and flex. After a moment, Castiel says, “I am weaker than I thought I would be after the first day.”

Dean blinks. “This is draining you?” 

Castiel nods, sitting up slightly only so he can lean back against the chair. “Each trial of the ritual is going to strain our bodies and minds in one way or another. Sending you back in time to a memory that does not belong to me was much more taxing than I thought it would be.”

Dean falls silent. He’s still unsure about all the weird emotions he felt during and after the ritual. He feels like he’s pissed at Castiel, but isn’t quite sure _why_ he’s pissed at him, which only serves to irritate him further. But seeing Castiel look rather listless, seeing his shitty posture and how he isn’t even attempting to take a bite of his food - all of that dampens Dean’s irritation.

“Should take a bath,” Dean suggests, even though his words are a little mumbled as he takes a bite of garlic toast. 

Castiel still doesn’t make to pick up his fork. “Perhaps.”

“Cas,” Dean says with a sigh around his name, “You gotta eat.” 

“Mmm,” Castiel hums in acknowledgment, but still doesn’t move.

Tensing his jaw, Dean puts his own fork down and wipes his hands on his napkin before he scoots his chair back to stand. He walks around the table and then sits in the seat adjacent to Castiel, reaching out to grab the fork and spoon on either side of his plate. Castiel shifts a little, straightening slightly to send Dean a curious look. Without looking at Castiel’s face Dean uses the spoon and fork to twirl some pasta onto the tines, and then he lifts it up towards Castiel’s face, staring at the coiled pasta instead of the way he knows Castiel’s eyes are widening in surprise.

“Dean?” 

“You gotta eat.” Dean says again, voice edged. “If this ritual shit is gonna take this much outta you, you gotta eat and keep your strength up.” 

Castiel’s left hand raises to grab the fork from Dean’s hand. Dean sits back a little and finally lifts his gaze to Castiel’s face to watch him take the bite and chew, Castiel’s eyes fluttering closed. Swallowing, Dean looks away and then stands up, his journey back to his chair halted when Castiel’s free hand reaches out to grasp at his wrist gently. He turns a curious glance towards Castiel, who looks up at him with unwavering blue, some strength obviously returning to his body.

“Sit next to me.” 

Dean arches a brow, “Why?” 

“I am stronger with you near me,” Castiel says.

Dean feels heat blossom on his cheeks. “Uh- I mean. Across the table isn’t that far, y’know.”

“It is better when we touch,” Castiel says, nodding at where his fingers are wrapped around Dean’s wrist, “but I know that is too much to ask. So if you could please sit next to me, Dean, I would appreciate it.” 

Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot. It’s not a totally crazy request - especially considering all Dean has gone through in the past twenty-four hours. Time travel? Dandy. Fighting evil warlocks? Superb. 

Sitting close to Castiel so he can lend him strength? _Hmmmmm._

“Fine,” Dean grumbles and walks back towards where his plate is. He gathers it and his glass of water and then returns to the seat by Castiel, settling in and pointing at Castiel with his garlic bread, “But don’t play footsie with me.” 

The tiny smile on Castiel’s lips makes something soften inside Dean’s chest. “Of course, Dean.”

Dean slams up his walls immediately, blocking that softness threatening to spill out. He will _not_ go soft on Castiel. Bonded they may be, Dean still has his reservations, and still thinks Castiel is a huge ass. He’s not gonna get _soft_ on him. They’re not gonna become best friends or buddies or pals. Dean is very aware of the fact that this is more like a business transaction than anything, and he’s going to do his best to keep it that way. Getting along with Castiel is important, of course; he doesn’t want to _hate_ the guy. But getting over all of these mental roadblocks he’s developed over the past year is going to take some time.

In Dean’s mind, Castiel is still the scary mob leader that threatened his brother’s life and blackmailed Dean into joining his gang. 

It will take a lot more than a ritual bonding ceremony to erase that fact out of Dean’s head. 

The rest of dinner passes in silence. Castiel cleans his plate and has an extra helping of garlic bread, and when he tries to clean up Dean has none of it, telling Castiel that he needs to go take that bath and relax. Dean is literally a passenger on this journey and he doesn’t need to be in any sort of shape to continue; it’s Castiel exerting his mind and body, and after a tense discussion with lots of gesturing with a soapy sponge while standing at the kitchen sink, Dean wins the argument for Castiel taking better care of himself. 

When Dean goes to bed that night he has a hard time settling down; every time he closes his eyes he sees his teenage father, the fire in his eyes and the strength in his resolve. He supposes he should be a little more freaked out about being tossed back in time to witness the event, but it ends up cementing Dean’s intentions. As a man who had never really believed in fate or destiny, it’s been a tough pill to swallow coming to terms with the fact that he was born to be a warlock’s protector. 

Dean has always been under the impression that he controls his own destiny and chooses his own fate. The insight into his father’s past and learning more about the bond between Krushnics and Winchesters has him realizing it’s been the opposite. That should piss him off. It should make him angry, it should make him mad at his father and this whole fucked up sequence of events.

It doesn’t.

Seeing his father defy Lucifer to his fate and begin the chain of events that lead to Dean being here today has done nothing but stoke the flames in Dean’s own determination. Stopping Lucifer _must_ be a priority. John Winchester died before he could complete that task, and the torch has been passed on.

Everything Dean and Sam have learned up until this point, and everything they continue to learn, will be the ticket to ending Lucifer’s rampage. 

Dean knows why Castiel showed him what he did. 

Now Dean just needs to figure out how to implement the tools he’s been given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Eto khorosho - Very good_   
> 


	11. In An Instant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is music hyperlinked at some point; it leads to youtube.  
> listening not required, but gently recommended.

Day two of the ritual starts at a better pace than the first. Castiel makes breakfast; quick oats with fresh cut fruit and honey drizzle with a side of yogurt. Dean grouses about the lack of bacon and Castiel’s lips tighten with the ghost of a smile, and once the kitchen is cleaned up they both start heading down the stairs, Castiel in the lead. Dean lets his eyes wander over Castiel’s bedhead, taking in the oversized sweater on his frame and the loose sweatpants that hide the true shape of his body.

Not that Dean is thinking about Castiel’s body. 

Dean himself is wearing lounge pants and a henley, having changed from his jeans when Castiel suggested that he wear clothes that will be much more comfortable. Dean sees the logic in that, since he’ll be sitting on a tiny pillow for six hours, but he also feels oddly… exposed, wearing these casual clothes. 

Seeing Castiel dressed so casually is a little weird, too. Dean associates Castiel with slacks and starched collars and that damn trench coat. With Castiel wearing everything that is _not_ those things, Dean finds himself sufficiently distracted. He used to think that Castiel was a little slender, maybe even gangly, because of the way his trench coat hung off his shoulders like it was on a hanger instead of a body. It turns out that Castiel’s frame is pretty much exactly the opposite of what Dean thought it was.

He’s thick, first of all. Everywhere. Castiel is broad and lined with muscle that Dean is surprised he didn’t see before. He’s thick to the point that when he sits Dean can see a bit of a roll over the waistband of his sweats and Dean hates that he’s started to look at Castiel this way. Fucking _hates_ it. He’s attributing it to the fact that he’s been holed up with Castiel and hasn’t had contact with anyone else - hell, he attributes it to the fact that for the past year his life has been nothing but work at the cafe and then working the mafia with Castiel. He hasn’t really been exposed to much outside of those two realms. 

Shit, he needs to get laid. 

_Shit_ , don’t think about Castiel and getting laid in the same breath, Dean Winchester.

Again. Dean isn’t thinking about Castiel’s body.

He is _not_.

Castiel seems to have regained most of his strength. Down in the basement Dean once again lets his gaze wander; that love seat looks mighty comfy. He purses his lips in disappointment when Castiel sets out the meditation cushions, folding himself gracefully down onto one of them with his back to the altar. Dean follows suit across him and leans from side to side to make sure his butt is nice and comfortable, legs crossed, hands on his knees. 

“Breathe with me,” Castiel instructs. 

“Thought you were a witch, not a hippie,” Dean grumbles a little, relaxing some of the tension in his shoulders anyway.

Castiel sends him a dry look. “Are they really all that different to your standards?” 

Dean grins a little. “Nope.”

“Then,” Castiel’s patience, when he chooses to exercise it, is astonishing. “Breathe with me. Yesterday was difficult, and the ritual will only get more stressful for both of us as the days pass.”

Feeling a little trepidation at those words, Dean closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Castiel drawing in breath through his lips and exhaling slowly through his nose. He mimics it, at first feeling stupid; on the third breath he feels more tension leave his body, on the seventh he relaxes into the cushion, and on the twelfth his mind is the blankest and calmest it’s ever been.

“Good,” Castiel murmurs, voice soft to not disturb the relaxed aura around them. “Yesterday I showed you the past. An event in history that is as real as you and I sitting here now. Today I will show you the future.”

Dean lifts a brow and cracks an eye open. “You can do that?”

Castiel’s deep blues open and pin Dean with their weight. “I can do my best. The future is not set in rock, Dean.”

“Stone,” Dean says idly.

“It can change in an instant, for even the smallest of incidents.”

“And here I thought _Butterfly Effect_ was just another movie to go directly into the five-dollar bin at Wal-Mart,” Dean grumbles.

Castiel’s brow furrows, and Dean knows immediately he doesn’t catch the reference. “Clairvoyance,” Castiel says and oh, the way he pronounces that word has laughter tickling in the back of Dean’s throat, “is a finicky talent. I do not excel in it normally, but with you lending strength to my powers, I believe I will be able to show you what I need to.” 

Letting out another slow breath, Dean curls his fingers around the curve of his kneecaps, doing his best to relax as he closes his eyes. Another few breaths pass between them, and then Dean says, “Hit me.” 

There’s a strange tug behind his navel, a sensation of being pulled forward physically. He opens his eyes - his astral eyes - and sees timelines and events whirring past him in a jumble as he catapults through time and distance; when his feet land on solid ground, he braces himself so he doesn’t fall over, his ears straining, head dizzy. He can hear Castiel chanting on the breeze, more words he doesn’t understand but taking comfort in them all the same, knowing that Castiel is looking out for him, just like last time. 

Can bring him back if anything goes wayside. 

He starts walking when his head clears. He’s on a sidewalk in a city, and not a very busy one at that. Judging by some of the shop fronts he thinks he’s downtown, wherever he is. Barber, bank, real estate, cafes. Maybe he should have asked Castiel what exactly he should be doing here… but if this is like being tossed into the past, Dean likely can’t affect anything that’s going on here, or interact with any of the people. He’s probably here as a passenger to an event he has no control over.

The walk is surprisingly boring. The city is drab, the sky is grey, and it’s an atmosphere not too different from a rainy autumn day and yet… there’s something else in the air. When he glances down at himself he’s wearing jeans and a flannel, not his pajama pants, and he frowns a bit. Last time his outfit hadn’t changed. He looks up just in time to jolt in surprise when someone nearly walks right into him - Dean jumps to the side and the stranger sends him a harried ‘sorry!’ before carrying on.

… Wait.

Did that person see him? 

The streets aren’t that busy, but they’re decently populated. Dean has no idea where he is; there isn’t even a city name on any of the businesses. Just storefronts that say _GROCER_ , _HAIR CUTS_ , and _POST OFFICE_. He walks a little more carefully, now, noting that people are indeed giving him berth on the sidewalk so they don’t collide. 

No one is looking directly at him, though.

Something doesn’t feel right.

There’s a man standing outside a tattoo parlor having a smoke. Dean slows next to him, offering what he hopes is a friendly smile.

“Hey man. Got the time?” 

The man’s eyes catch Dean’s and now there’s no mistaking that Dean is _visible_ in this world. But as soon as the man slides his gaze down Dean’s body he _hisses_ , fangs sprouting from his gums, eyes flashing red as he flicks the ashes from his cigarette towards Dean.

“Get out of here, hunter.” 

Stumbling back a bit with surprise at the tone of the stranger’s voice, Dean lifts his hands in innocence, even though he scowls. “What’s your problem, buddy?” 

“I don’t got a problem,” the vampire says, dropping his cigarette and taking a threatening step towards Dean. “But you’re aboutta have one if you don’t get outta here.” 

“Woah, woah,” Dean dances away. “Shit, fine.” There’s no real physical threat coming from the guy - more bark than bite, so to speak - but Dean still hurries away. His pace down the sidewalk is a bit quicker than before, and now he’s realizing people are giving him more space than anyone else on the sidewalk. As they pass Dean catches glimpses of fangs, pointed ears, red eyes, gills… He slows to a stop, feeling his heart rate slowing down considerably. 

He’s got the distinct sensation that he hasn’t seen a single human. 

“Fuck.” His heart rate accelerates so suddenly he gets a headrush. He doesn’t feel so safe anymore, even if that vampire back there hadn’t decided to rip him a new one. Looking around, Dean gets swallowed by hateful stares, sneers, and people hiding their children from him. What kind of future is this? There are monsters _everywhere_ and _Dean_ is the odd one out, and--

“Dean?” 

Castiel’s voice - not the one chanting in the wind - comes from an alley. Dean whips around to look at him and feels his jaw snap shut. 

It is Castiel, but this Castiel is… not the Castiel that Dean knows. He’s still the same age, likely still using his magic to keep himself young and strong, but instead of wearing a stupid suit and trench coat he’s wearing a worn vneck, holey jeans, and a tattered denim jacket. He’s scruffy, dirty, and gangly.

“Cas?” Dean hazards. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel says with the most emotion Dean has ever heard from him. Castiel glances around cautiously and then reaches out to grab Dean’s wrist and pull him into the alley, hustling down the damp, unpaved road towards where the buildings get tighter and tighter and farther away from the sidewalk. Dean has no choice but to follow, and he does so, thankful to see a familiar face - even if this Castiel is… _wrong_. 

Something isn’t right.

Castiel approaches a heavily warded door on the side of a dilapidated building. He utters something under his breath and the sigils glow before the tumblers of the lock fall out of place, allowing Castiel to reach forward and open the door. Dean follows him inside the building, watches as Castiel re-locks the door, and then whuffs out a surprised, startled noise when Castiel suddenly envelops him in a bone-crushing hug.

Awkwardly, Dean pats Castiel’s back a few times. “Uh- hey, buddy.” They don’t hug. This is- strange.

Wrong.

Holding Dean’s shoulders, Castiel pulls back so he can rove his gaze over Dean’s features. “You…” he licks his lips, blue eyes shifting over every centimeter of Dean’s face. “You’re from twenty-nineteen.”

Nodding slowly, Dean can still hear his own Castiel’s chanting, a bit fainter now than before. The physical touch with this Castiel is throwing him off. “Yeah. Uh- what year is it?” 

Castiel hesitates for a split second, before saying, “Twenty-thirty.” 

Eleven years in the future. Dean glances around, noting that they’re in a dark, damp stairwell. “Fuck. Ok, then.” 

Castiel’s gaze is expressive as it searches Dean’s features. He’s got an open sort of wonder on his face, the expression entirely foreign on him. “Why would I send you here…?” 

“I’m like- not gonna see my future twin or something, am I?” Dean asks with a nervous chuckle.

Castiel’s expression closes off. He seems to remember himself and he gives Dean’s bicep a squeeze before he turns to start heading down the stairs, going into the bowels of the decrepit building. “Follow me.”

Dean does. The stairs go down quite a few floors, Dean surprised that there’s basically a basement to the basement of the building. There are more warded doors, more sigils to be lit up, and then finally they’re in a communal area of some sort. There are people milling about; some are reading, some are maintaining weapons, some are rationing supplies. Frowning, Dean takes it all in. The space is large with high ceilings; there are cots lining one wall and long tables with benches filling the center of the room. There’s a kitchenette in one corner, and then doors that lead off to another section. Maybe restrooms. No windows, the only light coming from flickering fluorescent bulbs casting a ghastly glow over pale faces. 

It looks like a refugee camp. 

“Castiel?” A woman perks up from where she’s currently cleaning a shotgun. She eyes Dean warily. “Bringin’ in stragglers?” 

“Ellen,” Castiel greets her. “This is Dean.” 

The entire room falls silent. Dean feels the weight of it on his shoulders, feels their stares closing up his throat. Ellen slowly sets down her shotgun and then uses a rag to wipe her hands clean as she approaches them, her gaze taking in Dean’s appearance. Castiel is tense next to him, and when Ellen reaches up to touch Dean Castiel’s hand shoots out and knocks hers away, a low growl resonating from his throat.

“Please refrain from touching him.” 

Ellen’s brows shoot up her forehead. She smirks a little, shrugging. “Thought he’d be taller.” 

Everyone else looks like they’ve seen a ghost. Castiel tugs on Dean’s sleeve to lead him over towards the small kitchenette, gesturing for Dean to sit down in a chair. Dean’s a little shocked by Castiel’s visceral reaction - the Castiel Dean knows has never thrown a punch, never touched anyone in anger, despite the fact he easily could. This Castiel is different. 

Wrong. 

As he clangs around to make coffee, Dean takes in the situation. 

This Castiel is rough around the edges and yet… softer than the Castiel that Dean knows. More emotional. His reaction to seeing Dean is puzzling at best - and speaking of reactions, everyone else’s was very curious, too. It’s throwing Dean for a loop and he’s not sure how he feels about it. He’s uncomfortable, a weird prickling sensation starting to itch under his skin. 

Castiel sits down next to Dean and hands him his coffee with a wry smile, “No cream or sugar. Sorry.” His accent is nearly gone. Dean finds himself missing it.

“S’alright.” Dean takes a sip of the bitter liquid, wincing immediately. “Jesus.” 

“Coffee is a luxury we can’t really afford anymore,” Castiel says by way of explanation. “What we get is a sorry imitation.”

“Is this decaf?” Dean asks, staring at the dark brown liquid.

Castiel just grimaces in reply.

“What the fuck is happening here?” Dean asks, glancing around. From what he can tell these people are all human. Being sequestered like this is… odd. Scary. 

“Lucifer,” Castiel says with a soft sigh. “He created the world he always wanted to live in.” 

Dean sends Castiel a blank look, fear working its way into his nerve center. “Lucifer.” 

Castiel nods, slumping in his chair with an elbow on the table, fingers pressed to his forehead. This Castiel’s affect is so different than Dean’s Castiel, it’s a little startling. It’s like watching someone else possessing Castiel’s body and making it do things he never would. Like sigh, or slouch, or pick at his fingernails.

“How did Lucifer do this? Is- are you guys in hiding?” Dean asks. He rests his coffee mug on his knee. A glance down shows him the handle is chipped and the paint is dull. Scavenged, probably.

“Lucifer rose to full power,” Castiel says. “He turned the Earth into a monster’s paradise. There are fewer and fewer humans in the world. The ones that haven’t gone into hiding are being farmed for food. I do what I can to protect people, but I am only one person, and often it is not… enough.” 

Dean’s gut sinks. “Holy shit.” He runs his free hand through his hair. He feels weird around this Castiel. On edge. “He got- did he get dad?” 

Castiel’s silence is all the answer Dean needs. 

Dean stands up abruptly, almost spilling his coffee. He sets it on the table and takes a few agitated steps away from Castiel, fingers flexing before he tugs idly at his hair in anger. “And he created Hell on Earth for all the fucking scum-” he lifts his gaze to glance around the room, searching the people. After a moment, his brow furrows in confusion. “Where’s Benny?” Or Sam, Gabe, even Charlie and Jack?

“Dean,” Castiel reaches out to gently grasp Dean’s wrist. His fingers are solid, strong, a touch that Dean doesn’t know intimately yet this Castiel gives so readily. “Please sit. You won’t be here long.” 

Dropping his gaze down to Castiel’s face, Dean’s heart squeezes in his chest. This isn’t his Castiel - the Castiel from his time. This Castiel has seen so much death and destruction, has lost so much and is trying to hold onto the last threads of humanity, holed away with these other humans - hunters, judging by the arsenal - and this Castiel looks a certain kind of vulnerable that makes Dean’s guts twist. 

_Wrong_.

Dean sits. 

Castiel doesn’t let go of his wrist. “You being here means that you are going through the bonding ritual.” Dean nods. Castiel’s smile is small, sad. “You must see it through, Dean. If you do not… this is the future that awaits the world.” 

An icy, prickling feeling starts creeping up Dean’s spine. “Cas, where am I in this world?” 

Castiel’s smile is forlorn as he looks down at where he’s holding Dean’s wrist. “You aren’t.” 

The implication weighs heavily. In this future, Dean must not have finished the ritual. In this future Dean had fucked up and called it off and set in motion an irreversible chain of events. In this future Dean fucked up _bad_ and now Castiel is wandering this godforsaken Earth _alone_ , without Dean or Benny or anyone else except for these quickly scrapped together refugees who look like they could fall over if the wind blew on them wrong. In this future, without a bond between Dean and Castiel, Lucifer had risen and made good on his word to bring the non magic to their knees. 

Dean knows he’s not in this future because he’s dead. 

He can’t breathe. 

Panic swells in his chest and his whole body trembles; his knees jerk as he tries to stand but Castiel’s other hand is on his shoulder, keeping him in the chair, grounding him, Castiel sliding forward so their knees slot and their thighs collide. Both his hands then move up to Dean’s face, cupping either side of his head, thumbs on Dean’s cheeks as he forces green to meet blue. His tattoos are dull.

“You left me,” Castiel says, with a sad sort of conviction, “and you never told me why.” 

Dean’s brows twitch as he searches those deep, sad blue eyes. Castiel’s hands on his face seep alien warmth into his skin. “Cas, I couldn’t- I wouldn’t-” He doesn’t have an answer for him.

“You _did_ ,” Castiel says. Then, softer, “I needed you.” 

Dean’s mind flashes to his own Castiel telling him that same exact thing. His eyes close and he takes in a breath to steel himself, focusing on the whispers of Castiel’s voice echoing faintly around the dingy walls of the commune. He lifts his hands to rest them over Castiel’s, opening his eyes and speaking softly. Fiercely. “I _won’t_ leave you, Cas.” 

Castiel’s eyes are wet with emotions Dean didn’t even think the man could be capable of. There’s a tangible thing between them all of a sudden; there’s a lot of implication in Castiel’s heavy gaze, in his familiar touch, and Dean’s heart trips at the same time his stomach roils. 

Intimate.

“I won’t let this happen,” Dean clarifies. 

Castiel just… holds him. Keeps him right there, rooted to the spot, eyes on his. Dean stays. The heat from Castiel’s body is seeping through Dean’s jeans and he doesn’t like this Castiel; he doesn’t like his too-long hair and his scruffy beard and how thin he seems to be under his clothes. 

“Don’t leave me,” future Castiel says softly. 

Dean closes his eyes, fingers squeezing Castiel’s hands so hard his knuckles turn white. There’s that strange tug behind his navel again and then Dean’s astral body is being flung back in time, passing by blurry events and places and then Dean falls into his own body, sailing backwards onto the hardwood of Castiel’s basement floor. He’s gasping for breath and he rolls over onto his side, coughing violently, feeling like he’s going to hurl. 

He almost does.

He still feels future Castiel’s touch.

He’s trembling when Castiel helps him sit up and drapes a blanket over his shoulders. Dean looks up at this Castiel - his Castiel - with wild eyes and he reaches to clutch at the front of the man’s sweater, suddenly feeling desperate, like he needs to confirm that _this_ is his reality and not some fucked up dream. 

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says, unsure if he has any other words in his vocabulary. The pain of what he just saw - the crushing burden of knowing there’s a future that is nearly apocalyptic because of him - has him fighting to take in a steady breath.

Castiel looks quite concerned, his brow furrowed. His jaw barely has a five o’clock shadow, his hair isn’t too long and not too short and is fucked up beyond all recognition like usual. He’s thick, solid, heavy as he stands over Dean. His eyes are clear blue, his skin free of scars and bruises, tattoos solid and inky black. 

“Dean, what did you see?” Castiel asks calmly, his accent turning his _w_ into a _v_. 

Familiar.

Dean unglues his fingers from the front of Castiel’s sweatshirt so he can flop backwards, the blanket cushioning his fall. He takes in a few uneven breaths, trying to calm his heart, his eyes closing. He sees future Castiel - he sees the camp and the people inhabiting it, dirty and ragged with fear in their eyes. 

He sees a future without him in it. 

Eleven years from now. 

Opening his eyes, he catches Castiel’s concerned gaze. “Don’t you let me fucking quit,” he says, voice hoarse and cracking on the last word.

Castiel looks more intrigued than surprised. 

“Don’t fucking let me quit,” Dean repeats, exhaustion sweeping through his body. He’s vaguely aware of being moved and his own legs helping the movement robotically, and when softness is suddenly under him he knows he’s been moved to the loveseat. He curls his body up, wraps himself into the blanket, trying to combat the haunted eyes of future Castiel with images of Sam being happy and dopey, or Benny eating fruit kebabs, or even Gabriel eating a lollipop and making gross goo-goo eyes at Sam.

Anything to push what he’d just seen out of his head.

“Rest,” Castiel’s voice comes softly over him. He thinks he feels fingers in his hair. 

Sleep overtakes him like a tidal wave.

\--

When he wakes up, he doesn’t know how much time has passed. He feels hungover. Thankfully he didn’t dream - or at least, he doesn’t remember them if he did. Sitting up takes monumental effort and he wipes his hand over his face, wincing at the dried drool. His body being curled up on the loveseat aches from the prolonged position and the blanket drops from his shoulders, a weird chill settling in his bones.

“How are you feeling?” 

Castiel’s voice startles Dean enough that he yelps and clutches at the front of his shirt. He sends a weak glare in the man’s direction - he’s sitting in the wicker chair, wrapped in a blanket of his own with glasses on his nose and a book in his lap - before grumbling and standing up. He pads to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him so he can use the facilities, and then when he comes back out he returns to the loveseat to sink down into the cushions. There’s incense burning somewhere and Dean closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths, before finally replying.

“Like shit.” 

“Likewise,” Castiel murmurs.

Dean looks over at Castiel, taking him in fully. Of course, Dean had been the one sent to the future, but Castiel is the one who sent him there, and Castiel admitted last night that doing this ritual is going to take a lot out of him. He looks tired, Dean notes, bags under his eyes more pronounced, his fingers lax as they hold the book and turn the pages. Even weakened as he is, this Castiel is not the ghost that future Castiel was, and Dean finds himself physically shaking his head to dispel the images burned into his mind.

The touches seared into his skin. 

“Did’ja eat?” Dean asks. 

“No,” Castiel says. 

“Well let’s fix that,” Dean says, standing up with a grunt. 

Castiel stands as well, reaching out towards Dean to help steady him - Dean recoils immediately, taking a defensive step back, heart leaping up in his throat. Castiel blinks in surprise, withdrawing his hand self-consciously and dropping his gaze as he puts his bookmark in his book and sets it on the chair. “You cooked last night, allow me to cook tonight.” 

“Fine,” Dean says, his reply stilted. He heads up the stairs in front of Castiel, and once they’re in the kitchen Dean sits at the breakfast bar, folding his arms on the surface as Castiel opens up the fridge and starts sifting through items. After a moment of watching Castiel try to decide what to make, Dean lets out a breath and says softly, “Soup.” 

Castiel glances over his shoulder at Dean. “Would you like to wait for it to simmer, or would you like instant?” 

“Got any tomato rice?” Dean asks hopefully. 

The soft smile on Castiel’s face is odd. “Not canned, but I can make something similar.” 

Dean nods. The noise of Castiel moving around the kitchen is calming. Dean takes in everything; the high cupboards, the granite counter tops, the marble tile backsplash. The apron sink, the smart fridge, the gas burner stove. Castiel, elegant and regal as ever, confident and sure. 

This is not the dingy underground camp. 

This is not the future. 

“Benny told me if I can’t do the ritual, that if I want out… that I can call him and he’ll come get me,” Dean finds himself saying. 

Castiel glances over his shoulder as he sparks a burner to life with the click of a knob, arching a brow. “Oh?” 

Dean sort of feels like a snitch, but after what he just went through, he feels like Castiel should know. “He offered me an out if things got too… I dunno. Out of hand.” 

Castiel regards Dean quietly, and then turns back to the stove. “He was right to offer that.” 

“Was he though?” Dean asks, scrubbing his palm over his mouth, frowning down at the counter. “I know I gotta be willing in order for all of this to work, but feeling like I have the choice to leave is…” 

“You will always have the choice, Dean,” Castiel says. “I will not keep you against your will and I will not bond you against your will. That is not how white magic works, and I have already learned from my past mistakes of lying to you.”

“I get that,” Dean says, some frustration leaking into his voice. “But how d’you know I won’t bolt? How do you know I won’t call Benny tonight and ask him to come get me after what I saw today?” He can’t stop the words, just spilling everything in an upheaval of emotions. “The future don’t got me in it, Cas. But you’re there and you look like a dead man walking and I let you _down_. And my decision to be selfish, whatever the fuckin’ reason was, ended humanity’s future. I can’t-” his voice breaks. He clears his throat, still staring at the counter. “I can’t stand thinkin’ about doin’ that to you.”

Castiel turns away from the stove so he can face Dean and regard him thoughtfully. Dean feels his gaze like a weight but it doesn’t feel wrong. 

It doesn’t feel like future Castiel. 

“I cannot sway your thoughts or emotions,” Castiel says carefully. “The ritual’s purpose is to give you the information and tools necessary to make the right decision. You must _always_ trust your instinct.” 

“Why if my gut tells me to run?” Dean asks, his voice a whisper. 

“If your gut tells you that, what does your brain tell?” Castiel prompts.

“With what I know now? My brain says no matter what my gut wants, I gotta see this through. True grit. Fight through the bullshit to get to where we gotta be to stop Lucifer.” Dean says. He finally lifts his gaze to Castiel’s. “My brain says to stick with you to the end.” 

Nodding, Castiel turns to the stove. Dean stares at his back while he speaks. “I trust you, Dean. And while I know I haven’t done much to deserve yours, I hope you decide to stay by my side so that we may fight together.” 

_I needed you._

Squaring his shoulder, Dean nods. “Yeah.” 

Castiel dishes two bowls with soup and grabs a bag of crackers, moving to sit next to Dean at the bar. Their knees brush and instead of recoiling, Dean stays put. He sees some life and strength return to Castiel’s frame from their proximity. 

He picks up his spoon, crumbles some crackers, and then lets out a little breath. “You said that the future can change in an instant.”

“Mmm,” Castiel hums in acknowledgment. 

“Well, here’s an instant.” Dean looks at Castiel, waiting for the man to meet his gaze. “I’m seein’ this through.” 

Castiel holds Dean’s gaze, like he’s trying to see into the future that Dean saw. Dean isn’t sure how much Castiel knows or is aware of, given that he’s the one who sent Dean there in the first place, but a little bit of tension leaves Castiel’s shoulders and jawline, as he picks up his spoon and sends Dean the smallest of tired smiles. 

“Thank you, Dean.” 

“And Cas,” Dean says, forcing a small smile onto his lips. “Don’t ever change.”

 _Don’t leave me_ echoes around in Dean’s head until he falls into a dreamless sleep later that night. 

\--*--

The next day is much easier than the first two. Castiel plans it that way. In the basement they meditate together, even though Dean holds many complaints about being still and quiet for extended periods of time. Castiel takes these silent moments to try and probe into Dean’s mind - he wants desperately to see what Dean saw in the future. He knows better, of course, and doesn’t try too hard, not wanting to cross a line and risk Dean’s anger.

It’s better that he doesn’t know. But Dean’s reaction has Castiel morbidly curious. 

A future without Dean means that he could break the ritual and leave Castiel. 

Dean’s declaration of will at last night’s dinner sits heavily in Castiel’s chest. He wants to believe Dean - he wants to believe that he’ll see everything through and still be willing to help when the ritual is said and done. But knowing that Benny had given Dean an out lets Castiel know that things are probably going to get way more complicated than the hunter imagined. Benny, up until now, has known Dean much better than Castiel. If he offered Dean an out that means Benny thinks Dean might crumble.

That thought is… unpleasant. 

So as to not throw Dean too off-course Castiel keeps things easy. Meditation, herb collecting, basic spellwork. Castiel shows Dean how to mix ingredients for spells, teaches him proper Latin pronunciation, and commends the man when he successfully sets the fireplace alight with a snap of his fingers. They’re both still physically exhausted from the first two days, so Castiel is purposely allowing them to accomplish light tasks. It is imperative that Dean learns basic spellwork - much like his uncle Bobby had - so that he can be a truly strong ally and source for Castiel and the battles ahead. 

Dean is like a little kid as he learns the basic spells. Perhaps, in retrospect, Castiel shouldn’t give him the ability to create fire with the snap of his fingers, but the unadulterated _glee_ in Dean’s eyes when he gets it right is… worth it. As they work together Castiel is patient and exemplary, even when Dean gets a little rowdy. He knows full well that keeping Dean Winchester cooped up for this long is a terrible idea, but there simply is no other way. 

The hunter has an uncanny knack for magic. Castiel had suspected it would be that way; Gabriel, while he tends to embellish things, has had nothing but spectacular results in training Sam. It would make sense that Dean would also be easy to teach. Dean catches on quick and has a particular affinity for fire and electricity, which Castiel notes will be a nice complement to his own… chillier preferences. Dean’s natural talent will only make it easier for Castiel’s magic to amplify on the battlefield. It’s baby steps for now, Dean erring on the side of caution after he accidentally set Castiel’s tablecloth on fire, but Castiel is sure that Dean is filled to the brim with untapped potential.

At the end of day three, while they clean up the mess in the kitchen, Castiel revels in the emotions and feelings cloying the air between them. This is the most relaxed and carefree Dean has been since they met. Granted, when there’s a lull between them Dean’s eyes darken a little and the corners of his mouth turn down slightly; Castiel knows Dean is reminiscing about the future - the future without him in it - and whenever that happens Castiel starts rambling about how to gather ancient ingredients, or how to identify a magical apothecary from a chintzy wiccan shop on the street. 

Dean seems grateful for the distractions.

Castiel is a little self-conscious about speaking so much, though; being physically and mentally exhausted has his accent thick and rough, and Dean has to ask him to repeat words more than once. It frustrates Castiel, but it seems to enamor Dean, so he pushes past his own insecurities and discomfort to continue talking. 

They settle in the living room with a glass of wine and a cold bottle of beer at around eight p.m., comfortable on opposite ends of the couch as the fireplace crackles. 

“Y’know, I haven’t watched a lick of TV since bein’ here,” Dean says, taking a drink of his beer.

“Television is a novelty I am not too fond of,” Castiel says. His knees are drawn up to his chest, his back curved into the space between the armrest and the back cushions of the couch. He’s wearing sweatpants and an oversized sweater, the sleeves rolled up after Dean accidentally charred the hem of them earlier. There’s still a faint burn on Castiel’s inner wrist, skin shiny with the healing salve he’d applied.

Dean is facing the fireplace, back sunk into the cushions. He’s wearing jeans and a ratty old band tee, knees spread and posture terrible as he rests his beer on his thigh, his other arm lifted up and bent at the elbow so he can tuck his hand between the nape of his neck and the back of the couch. “Sounds like somethin’ you would say.” Dean smirks a little, sending Castiel an arched brow. “Ya got a favorite movie?”

Castiel shakes his head. 

Dean rolls his eyes a little. “You’ve been on this Earth for _how_ long and don’t even have a favorite movie?”

“I prefer music,” Castiel says, bristling slightly as he takes a sip of wine. 

“Alright,” Dean changes direction, “What’s your favorite song?” 

Castiel takes a moment to reply, thinking. “I would say most recently, the _Mendelssohn_ violin concerto in E minor.” He hates the way those words fall from his lips, his accent thick. He pushes through, because Dean arches a brow curiously. “Specifically with [Hilary Hahn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1dBg__wsuo) on the violin. Her work is…” Castiel lets his gaze wander back to the fireplace. “Inspiring.” 

There’s a moment of silence, Dean probably mourning the fact Castiel’s answer didn’t involve hairband music from the eighties. But then- Dean grabs his phone off of the coffee table along with the remote for the bluetooth surround sound system Castiel has hooked up, fingers moving and gaze concentrated. Castiel watches idly as Dean types some things onto his phone, listens as his speakers chirp with their connection to Dean’s phone, and then Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise when the first few notes of the concerto filter through the speakers. 

Dean sets down his phone and the remote, picking up his beer again and settling back into the couch. His eyes close, seemingly absorbing the music, and Castiel feels something melt inside of him. The music seeps into his mind and body and Castiel finds himself relaxing further into the couch. His hold on his glass is likely warming the wine inside, but he can’t find himself to care. 

Dean is listening to his favorite song.

Castiel isn’t quite sure what that means. 

For so long Dean has fought against Castiel, tooth and nail, doing his best to not get… what, invested? Emotionally Dean has always been closed off towards Castiel. That inherited loyalty runs deep in his blood, so he has been playing nice (well- as nice as Dean Winchester plays when he dislikes someone) for the sake of what they’re marching towards. Castiel has never been under the illusion that Dean would like him, under any circumstance. Castiel is a realist, after all.

However, it’s been a year since he and Dean met. A year of push and pull, of silly arguments and tense discussions and near fist fights. A year of Dean morphing from being scared of Castiel to being (almost fondly) annoyed by him; a year of Castiel doing his best to keep his own emotions under control and choreograph a dance between them that wouldn’t end up with either of them hurt - or worse. 

Castiel thinks he’s been doing alright.

And right now, with Dean absorbing the sweet violin trilling around them, Castiel wonders if he should consider this a “win” (Dean’s phrase), or if he should continue to worry about what the morning will bring. 

Dean’s temperament has evened out quite a bit over the past few weeks, but Castiel is still wary of the fact that Dean’s emotions turn on a dime, especially when it comes to Castiel. Castiel thinks he should be affronted by Dean’s hot-and-cold attitude towards him, but now he just feels slightly exhausted by it. They haven’t gone toe-to-toe since that morning on the front porch, and if Castiel has his way, that would be the last time. 

Dean, though, clearly has his own way of dealing with things. And if that means shaking Castiel around a bit and letting off steam, then Castiel will allow it. 

After all, were it not for Castiel seeking him out, Dean could be living a relatively normal life. Bond be damned, the Winchester boys had fallen out of the lifestyle and were flourishing as regular people. But it all circles back to Lucifer, and Castiel’s desperate need to take him out and, in essence, save the world. 

He can’t do it without Dean. 

“This is nice,” Dean breaks the silence.

Castiel’s gaze cuts over to him. Dean’s eyes are still closed, his beer still three-quarters full, and there’s a tiny smile on his lips, features relaxed as he listens to the concerto. 

“It is,” Castiel agrees. “Ms. Hahn has true talent for the violin.” He takes a sip of wine and shifts to sink into the comfort of the couch. “The clarity of her work is stunning. Sometimes it is difficult to believe she is person playing an instrument.” 

Dean nods idly, opening his eyes to look up at the ceiling. “I used to strum around on a guitar but my fingerwork was never too impressive. I could play songs but the bars were usually pretty messy. I sang a lot to cover it up.”

Castiel finds himself smiling wryly, imagining a youthful Dean surrounded by friends as he played. “I am sure people forgave you for being a messy player.”

Dean’s grin is wolfish. “You’re right, they did.” 

Another silence settles over them. They’re in the third movement of the concerto now and Castiel drains his wine glass, setting it down on the table. Dean drinks more of his beer, and then finally looks over at Castiel.

“Why was today so easy?” 

An amused smile quirks Castiel’s lips. “Today was _easy_?” 

“I mean-” Dean laughs, clearly thinking about how many times he scorched the sleeves of the flannel he’d been wearing all day and eventually had to throw in the trash. “It wasn’t _easy_ easy. Magic is hard. But uh- I mean. The first two days were pretty intense.” 

Castiel nods in agreement. “Today we needed to gather our physical strength back. Tomorrow will be another difficult day.”

“What are we gonna do?” 

“I can’t tell you,” Castiel says. “Part of the ritual is you experiencing things as they come. A test of will and wit, I suppose.”

Letting out a blustery sigh, Dean finishes his beer and sets it down on the coffee table next to Castiel’s wine glass. “I guess that’s smart. Gotta make sure I do well on the fly.” 

“I already know you are good at improvising,” Castiel says. “You are incredibly smart and quick-witted.” Dean flushes under the praise. Interesting. “But the ritual is as it stands, and we will not deviate.” 

“How…” Dean wipes his palms over his thighs idly. “How’m I doin’?” 

Castiel blinks a few times, tilting his head. “What do you mean?” 

“The ritual- it’s kinda like a test, right?” Dean asks. Castiel gives a slight nod. “So- am I passing?” 

Castiel chuckles a bit. “You are doing very well, Dean. Just as I suspected.” His voice softens a bit. “I know your father’s training was vague at best, but you and Sam both have a natural knack that we thought had been lost for a century. You are the strongest hunters in a hundred years. That you coincide with the rise of Lucifer is not luck. It is fate.”

Dean snorts a little, rubbing the back of his neck. Castiel is well aware of the fact that Dean isn’t fond of the possibility that his future is predestined, that his very existence had been set in rock.

Stone.

“Well,” Dean stands up, gathering the glass and bottle. “Here’s to hoping that this whole fate thing means that we can kick Lucifer’s ass and save the world.” 

Castiel smiles small, allowing Dean the last word as the hunter leaves the living room. Eyes moving to the fireplace, he takes in the ambient green base of the flames. Castiel’s own fires glow blue at the base. He runs a hand through his hair a few times, tugging at the strands, massaging his scalp for a few moments, before he finally stands. The rest of the ritual won’t be as complicated as the first two days, but it’s the last day that has anticipation swirling in Castiel’s gut. 

If things go wrong, there is a future where Dean is dead and Lucifer rules. 

As Dean would say: No pressure, right? 

Castiel extinguishes the fire with a wave of his hand, breathing a sigh into the darkness. 

He feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

Dean is the light at the end of the tunnel.


	12. Fire & Ice

“Today we are going into combat,” Castiel says as he and Dean sit on their cushions in the basement.

Dean arches a brow. “Uh.” 

“Like I have projected you into the past and the future, I am going to create a simulation where we can hone our skills together.” Castiel explains. “You and Benny work very well together,” there’s a strange tone to his voice when he says that, “but I am the one that you are bonding with, and who you must find a tactical connection with.”

“Okay,” Dean says, fidgeting slightly. Is Castiel pissed? He frowns a little, deciding not to ask. “A simulation? Like what?”

“I will explain when we arrive.” Castiel puts his hands on his knees and closes his eyes, breathing slow.

Dean’s a little unsure, but follows suit. The weights of both the past and the future weighs on him, but he trusts Castiel implicitly. He listens to Castiel’s breathing like he has so many times this week, the Pavlovian response being that he immediately calms down and finds his center. For never having mediated before at any point in his life he’s caught on pretty good, if he says so himself, but being yanked around through space and time is still a little unnerving. The fish hook in his navel has him lurching forward and this time he keeps his eyes shut, not wanting to look at all the bright lights and nebula flares as he gets catapulted to wherever Castiel is sending them. He feels a little anxiety, but he squashes it down.

When he opens his eyes they’re standing in a grassy meadow surrounded by tall trees, Castiel in front of him. It’s a little weird, because Castiel’s chanting is still in the background even though the Castiel in front of him isn’t saying anything. They’re dressed down in jeans and t-shirts, Dean suddenly feeling a deja vu sensation of seeing future Castiel, nausea catching him by surprise. 

“Dean,” Castiel steps forward immediately, reaching to grab his shoulders when Dean doubles over slightly. The touch is strange - it’s not totally solid, because this is a projection or whatever, but there’s a faint pressure where Castiel’s hands rest. 

Dean shrugs it off as he straightens, running a hand over his own features as though he can just wipe away the emotions. He takes a few breaths, and then shakes his hands out once he feels like he has things under control. “M’fine.” 

Castiel frowns, not buying it. But he doesn’t push, and Dean finds himself thankful for it. “Today we are going to fight monsters. Lucifer has all sorts of creatures in his charge and while you know how to fight them in theory, it is best if we apply your knowledge to real life situations.” 

Dean nods in agreement, but then something tugs at the back of his brain. Something is off about Castiel... Maybe it’s just the projection, but that uneasiness returns. “Alright. So we’re gonna fight some baddies. But uh,” he glances around them to the empty meadow, “we don’t have any weapons.” 

“We _are_ the weapons,” Castiel says. 

It clicks. Dean’s hackles raise, his gaze snapping back towards Castiel. “What happened to your accent?” 

That makes Castiel tilt his head in surprise. “My accent?” 

“You don’t-” Dean thinks about future Castiel and the way his words had sounded _too_ Americanized. Too robotic. Too _much_. He had hated it then. He hates it now. It’s not _Castiel_ , and a strange panicky sensation is rising in his gut. “Don’t alter your voice, man.” 

Castiel frowns, puzzled. “It is easier for you to understand me without an accent. This is the only place where I can speak to you freely without worrying about whether or not I am making the correct grammatical choices.” 

“I don’t care about any of that,” Dean says, suddenly feeling vehement and defensive. Future Castiel’s touch burns his wrist, and Dean wipes it idly against his side on the material of his shirt. “I understand you just fine. Just- put it back the way it was.” The ‘please’ is left off, and Dean desperately hopes that Castiel can understand the tone of his voice. He’s trying to not come off as frantic, but if he could go the rest of his life without thinking about future Castiel, he damn well wants to try. 

Castiel still looks mildly confused, but he nods. “Of course, Dean.” There it is. Dean feels himself relax minutely as Castiel’s tone and cadence returns to normal. “Let us continue.” 

Dean nods, exhaling slowly. It takes him another few minutes to get his head on straight, but when he finally does, he nods again. “‘Kay.” 

Castiel leads them through some basic magic exercises, making sure Dean remembers what he’d learned yesterday in the kitchen. Simple summoning spells, how to spark a flame; and then Castiel takes a step back from Dean, shaking out his hands, some sparks flying as he does so. 

“Sparring is another thing I want to perfect,” Castiel says once the electricity stops dancing across his fingertips.

Dean’s discomfort from earlier is immediately forgotten at the prospect of a tussle, his own fingers buzzing from the magic sitting at the tips like a static charge. Nothing can distract a Winchester like a good toss. “Shouldn’t we do that in the, uh, real world?” 

“Here will be an exact replica of how it would happen in the ‘real world,’” Castiel says with air quotes. “We will get winded, we will get hurt - but our injuries will not carry into the real world and hinder us.”

“Gotcha,” Dean says, even though it’s all kind of over his head. But he takes Castiel at his word, because he doesn’t really have a choice. Experimentally he claps his hands together, testing the solidness of them and the vibrations that tingle through his skin; the physical sensation is there, dulled down a bit - not so much that he can’t tell what’s happening, but there’s no sharp, painful sting when he claps as hard as he can. Grinning a little, he can’t help but find the situation intriguing. “Cool.” 

Castiel takes a few steps away from Dean and then turns to face him, shifting into a defensive stance with his feet spread, thighs bent, hands up. “Attack me.”

Dean eyes Castiel’s form; judging from how he’s holding himself, Dean can hazard from the thousands of movies he’s seen that Castiel has been trained in some sort of martial arts. It’s pretty much the exact opposite of the brawling that Dean was taught by his dad (and trial and error of various bar fights, but that’s neither here nor there), and Benny did his best to teach Dean some grace and technique but it always boiled down to Dean being scrappy and quick-witted, his athleticism allowing him to not have to train tediously on anything specifically. He’s always been a quick learner. 

“You sure you wanna be on defense?” Dean asks, shaking out his limbs and wiggling his fingers. More electricity discharges.

“Are you sure you want to be on offense?” Castiel replies, the corners of his lips quirking in a show of confidence Dean hasn’t seen in quite a while.

Heat flashes through him.

He stomps it down immediately. 

A twitch of his foot has Castiel tensing, and Dean smirks. Castiel is going to try and predict all of his moves. Considering how much time they’ve spent together, he _might_ be able to do it - but it all boils down to the fact that Castiel hasn’t ever seen Dean fight, hasn’t sat in on any sparring sessions with Benny, has no idea _how_ Dean fights. 

Dean darts forward. Castiel leans his weight on his back leg, no doubt preparing to steady himself against whatever attack Dean throws at him. When Castiel’s arms go up Dean’s shoulders go down and he bodily tackles Castiel to the soft ground, satisfied with the whuff of breath that gets punched out of Castiel’s lungs. One leg over Castiel’s hips, his other knee in the ground, Dean swings to cuff Castiel on the side of the head. Castiel manages to get an arm up to block and oh, shit, Castiel’s legs must be fucking tree trunks because Castiel uses just one of them to upset Dean’s balance and get him to sprawl on his back. 

Castiel gets off of him quickly, taking three big steps away and dropping back into his defensive stance. Dean stands up and bounces on the balls of his feet a few times to dispel nervous energy before allowing a smile to spread on his features.

“Alright,” he says aloud. “I think I got you now.” 

“You didn’t have me then,” Castiel replies, the barest hint of sass in his voice. 

This time when Dean closes in on him he stays up top. Clearly, allowing Castiel the ability to use his legs would be to Dean’s disadvantage, because his own aren’t nearly as strong. Putting Castiel on the ground in a full submission hold is going to be the only way to pin him, and first Dean needs to totally disarm him. Dean goes in with a swing - blocked - and then immediately counters with another.

Blocked.

Castiel’s defense is hard to break and he takes hits like a brick wall. Dean knows that if they were back in the real world his knuckles and wrists would be smarting quite a bit. As is, he’s a little winded, but his body isn’t telling him to stop. Castiel’s eyes are burning into Dean as he attacks and he kind of looks like he might be… 

Dean swings his right arm for another attempt at cuffing the side of Castiel’s head. Castiel’s hand blocks and then his fingers grip Dean’s wrist for a split second before deflecting, causing Dean to sidestep him completely by using his weight against him. 

Holy shit.

Castiel is memorizing everything Dean is doing. 

It’s not about Castiel being able to predict what Dean will do - it’s about Castiel cataloguing what Dean is giving him. 

Frustration works its way into Dean’s subconscious. He beats the snot out of Benny on a _bad_ day. He should be able to land a hit on Castiel. He dodges back, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and allows his gaze to wander over Castiel.

The man is barely winded. 

Dean clenches his jaw. He has to fight _Castiel_ , not Benny. He’s gotta change his way of thinking, change his method of attack. 

The next time he goes forward, he leads with a kick. That seems to catch Castiel off guard as he drops a hand to deflect Dean’s boot; Dean swings his left hand for a hit a split second after, which also gets blocked, and with both of Castiel’s hands occupied, Dean manages to connect a punch to Castiel’s left cheek.

Castiel jumps back like he’s been burned, his eyes wide. 

Dean grins in triumph.

Castiel’s defensive stance drops lower, and then Dean rains his fists down on him. It goes from Dean attacking and Castiel parrying to an intricate dance; Dean manages to land a few hits, connecting his knuckles to Castiel’s jaw, temple, collarbone - his feet hitting strong thighs, knocking the backs of his knees. Castiel stays upright and absorbs every impact, winded, his hair fucked beyond belief and sweat dripping down his brow, shirt staining darker with perspiration. Dean’s stamina is proving to be incredible, surprising even himself, and then finally with a well aimed kick to Castiel’s ribs, the warlock takes a knee. 

Dean steps back, allowing Castiel to catch his breath but also wary of the fact it could be a trick. Castiel won’t be playing defense the whole time. He watches the man draw in deep breaths, watches his chest expand and contract. Castiel runs a hand through his sweaty hair and makes it stand up on end, and when he turns up fiery cobalt eyes towards Dean, he feels a zing shock through his body and threaten to settle at the base of his cock. He anticipates Castiel launching from his crouched position and throws his arms up in defense, only to yelp in surprise when Castiel sweeps his feet out from under him.

Landing hard on his back, Dean rolls to the side to avoid Castiel’s boot coming down on his face. He swings his legs in a windmill and stands quickly, his forearm coming up to block the punch Castiel aims at his face. Castiel is _quick_. It’s a lot different defending him than attacking him and Dean is quickly realizing that he might not be a match for Castiel. He moves with a fluid grace that Dean lacks, and he breaks Dean’s defense much easier than Dean had broken his. 

Awesome.

 _Hot_ , his traitorous mind supplies.

Castiel lands a punch in Dean’s ribs. He huffs and grunts and almost doesn’t block the knee coming up to his stomach - Dean swipes it with a palm, the shockwave of the hit rippling up his arm and making his elbow give out. He softens the blow but doesn’t completely deflect it, and he feels his balance upsetting. He reaches out to grapple at Castiel’s shoulders, watching the man’s eyes widen as Dean takes him down with him. Wrenching his body to the side, Dean gets Castiel under him, pinning the man chest-down on the soft ground. His knee presses into the middle of Castiel’s back, one hand pinning his left shoulder and the other hand holding his head down and smushing his face into the grass.

They stay frozen like that for a few seconds, Castiel huffing breath so hard he disturbs the grass around his head. Dean’s adrenaline is up, Castiel’s quick and powerful moves making him think he’s pretty outmatched. The only way he can best Castiel is to pin him, and Dean has always been a good grappler. 

Castiel’s hips shift, knees spreading, ass lifting. Dean whuffs out a surprised breath when Castiel’s ass comes into contact with his groin, and it’s disorienting enough that Castiel manages to buck Dean off completely so he can roll over, a foot coming up to kick Dean square in the chest and knock him to the ground. Mind reeling with adrenaline and arousal Dean rolls away and then lets out a startled breath when Castiel is suddenly on his back, chest pushing him down to the ground. The struggle is rough - elbows connect to noses, fists hit jaws. Castiel manages to get his legs between Dean’s and then he yanks them to the side, Castiel landing on his back on the ground, Dean atop him, chest to back. Dean stares up at the muted blue sky in surprise as Castiel’s limbs wrap him up in an unbreakable submission hold and Dean does his best to not think about how _strong_ Castiel is, to be able to not only have Dean in a grapple but also be holding his full weight on top of his body without being crushed or struggling for air.

Well, Castiel is huffing out his breath in tiny pants, but he’s much more composed than Dean, who only struggles for a few seconds before falling lax in Castiel’s hold. He twists a wrist to tap at Castiel’s thigh with two fingers and then Castiel’s vice grip releases him, Dean immediately rolling off of him to flop onto the grass and try to regulate his breathing now that Castiel’s huge fucking arms aren’t trying to collapse his lungs.

They lie side by side on the soft grass, staring up at the cloudless sky. Along the breeze Castiel’s chanting is steady as ever and Dean closes his eyes, taking stock of his body. Man, if they’d been in the real world doing this, Dean would probably need to go to the hospital. He cracks an eye open and looks over at Castiel, whose eyes are closed, bruises forming on his face and his lip split with blood.

Smirking to himself with a bit of satisfaction, Dean settles. “That went well.”

Castiel snorts. “Your defense is terrible.” 

“Hey, you wanted me to learn how to take a hit,” Dean counters with no heat. “I did.”

“You did,” Castiel agrees. 

When Dean opens his eyes Castiel is sitting up, so Dean does the same. “What’s next?” 

Castiel slants his gaze towards Dean, the corner of his lip twisting up slightly. “Monsters.”

Dean nods, sitting up. There’s a rustle from the trees, a gust of wind passing through the meadow, and Dean scans the treeline, enjoying the serenity of the area.

The peace is broken when a screeching vampire comes shooting out of the woods, fangs sharp, claws out. Dean’s eyes widen, adrenaline spiking again unpleasantly in his gut, warring with nausea. Castiel had had Dean study up on all sorts of monsters and creatures; vampires die by beheading, slow down when injected with dead man’s blood, and can’t recover well from being lit up (then again, Dean can’t think of any creature that can survive being burnt to ashes). He gets up and instinctively reaches to his hip where a weapon would be - a gun, a machete, _anything_ \- and curses when his fingers hit nothing. 

The vampire is closing in. 

Castiel stays on the ground. 

The vampire is twenty yards away.

Castiel yawns.

Fifteen yards.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is rough. “Never told me how to kill a vampire without a weapon.”

“No?” Castiel inquires with interest. “Hmm.” 

Ten yards.

Dean shoots an incredulous glare down at Castiel, who is leaning back on his hands and watching the vampire approach with the calm of someone watching the sun set. 

Five yards.

Dean looks at the vampire again. He can take it in hand to hand, but he’s pretty sure he’s not strong enough to rip its head off with his bare hands. 

The vampire is almost on him.

Dean turns tail and runs. 

Castiel stays seated, lifting his hand to draw in the air with his pointer finger, sparks sizzling to leave a smoky sigil to waft into the breeze. 

A dozen more vampires spill out of the trees, all gunning for Dean.

“What the hell, man?!” Dean yells out in exasperation. 

Fighting off a dozen vampires is difficult, to say the least. Dean does his best, kicking and punching and fighting. With no weapons he’s not sure how exactly he’ll be able to actually kill any of them. They’re relentless, feral, and even though this is a simulation Dean’s brain has tricked him into true fight or flight mode, adrenaline coursing through his veins. As he fights he keeps his eye on what he can, trying to see if there’s anything in the immediate vicinity he can use as a weapon.

There’s lots of branches handy, but a branch alone isn’t going to be strong enough - or sharp enough - to do what he needs it to. These vampires won’t die with a stake through the heart, even if Dean desperately wishes that were the case.

He makes a mad dash for the treeline anyway, his brain on overdrive. The vampires all follow him and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever climbed a tree so fast in his life. He’s got enough time, as he settles on a thick branch, to start breaking off branches and gather them into his lap. Three good, solid, sturdy branches should do. One vampire has broken away from the pack and is at the tree before the others, starting to climb. Dean grabs a branch in one hand and holds out his other palm, letting out a breath.

“I hope this works.” 

Dean snaps his fingers. Green electricity crackles and fire erupts over the branch, the wood catching easily. He grabs the branch with both hands and when the vampire is close enough he puts all his strength in his arms, driving the branch into the top of the vampire’s skull clean through down into its torso. The vampire falls to the ground immediately, dead, and with another snap of his fingers the vampire’s entire body gets engulfed in flames, burning it to a crisp.

Exhilaration courses through him at the sight.

Well, then.

The next two vampires get the same treatment. Dean’s out of sturdy branches so he climbs up the tree a few more feet, high enough that he can jump over to the next tree to start gathering more sturdy branches. Apparently vampires are shitty climbers. That could be a fact, or Castiel is purposely giving him a break. He tries not to think about it. He breaks off more branches and takes down two more vampires, then sees some thick vines hanging from another tree, swaying gently in the breeze. He grins and quickly hops a few branches to get to that tree, grabbing the vine and allowing himself to fall a few feet, the slack vine going taut with his weight. 

Two vampires scramble up within reach of him and Dean kicks one of them in the head so he can round them, using the momentum and strength of the vine to swing in a wide arc away from the tree - when he comes back the vine catches the vamps around the neck and he swings in tight, effectively hanging the vampires and pinning them to the trunk of the tree. Dean pulls the vine as tight as it’ll go and grins at the vampires reaching up to their necks, struggling to pull the vine away. A snap of his fingers has the vine lighting up, and where it’s tight against their throat it melts directly into their skin. He focuses his magic there, amplifies it with a thought, and then the hot vine slices clean through the vampire’s necks, beheading them. Their heads and bodies fall to the ground separately, and Dean feels a different kind of adrenaline rush.

“Cool,” he breathes. 

Abandoning the trees to land on the ground, Dean’s brain goes a mile a minute as the remaining vampires all encroach, clearly ready to ambush him all at once. His magic feels pretty ramped up, adrenaline high, vamp blood and sweat clinging to his clothes; and when the vampires close in on him he feels an extra, external boost of magic, recognizing Castiel’s cool aura so separate from his own burning one. 

Dean allows the vampires to dog pile him, bracing his entire body. He focuses on that push of ice against fire and gathers all of his magic in every vein in his body, releasing it all at once in a giant explosion of power.

“ _IGNIS!_ ”

Every single vampire goes up in flames. 

Dean stands in the carnage, breathless and bloody, clothes charred, ash mixing with the sweat on his skin to leave dark smears behind. Electricity crackles at his fingertips and he still feels magic coursing through him, threatening to spill out of his pores. He closes his eyes and regulates his breathing, feels Castiel’s magic release him, and then finally feels his body relax. The relief takes him down to his knees, his palms pressing into the soft earth, and he tries to take in deep breaths to settle his jittery nerves. The bodies around him all disappear.

Castiel’s shoes become visible in his peripheral. Wincing slightly, Dean sits back on his haunches and rests his palms on his thighs, sending Castiel a sunny, sated smile as he squints against the sun.

“Got ‘em.” 

Castiel laughs, he _laughs_ , the sound melodious and beautiful and settling into Dean’s veins in a way similar to his magic. It burrows inside Dean, makes a home in his chest, and Dean allows his eyes to fall shut with exhaustion.

\--*--

Castiel allows Dean to snooze for the rest of the afternoon. Even though none of their injuries carried into the real world, Dean had used an incredible amount of magic in the simulation and was rightly drained when they returned to their bodies. Dean had drank the cup of tea Castiel pushed under his nose and when his cup was empty he waved Castiel off and retreated to his bedroom to rest. 

Castiel is, however, restless.

The simulation had gone much better than expected. Castiel knew that Dean would be more than capable of holding his own in a fight, and Castiel had been pleased with the results. Dean had tapped out in their sparring match, but Castiel had known that was going to be the outcome. Even if Dean cannot best Castiel, he can still outmatch virtually anyone else. The fact that he’d kept up as well as he did was impressive. 

And then... the monster simulation.

Castiel has always known Dean is good at thinking on his feet, but this blew his expectations out of the water. The intention of that round was to test Dean’s magic skills. Dean could have easily vaporized all of the vampires in one go at the beginning - the hunter underestimates his own magical abilities too much, especially when Castiel lends him a bit of juice. But instead Dean moved tactically through the playing field and figured out how to use his surroundings to his advantage. Fashioning a weapon out of a physical item and infusing it with his magic was something Castiel had sort of expected, but certainly not to the degree of finesse with which it was executed. The branches, sure. 

The beheading via vine? 

_Art_. 

Dean is truly a master of improv. Castiel suspects that the branches and the vines had been Dean feeling out how much magic he can expel without getting winded - and then once Dean had gained the confidence, he lit the vampires up, no hesitation. 

Sitting curled up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of warm tea in his hands, Castiel smiles and shakes his head to himself, eyes on the fireplace. Even though Dean had used the last reserves of his magic for the final attack, Castiel had seen the electricity crackling through the air around him, lightning without clouds. 

That raw power… _Dean’s_ strength and power is breathtaking. Castiel has long suspected that the Winchester boys were going to be the key to taking down Lucifer, but he is consistently surprised with just how _incredible_ they are. Sam had picked up magic early on - he’s no warlock, but he’s an impressive spellcaster, Gabriel saying it only took a few days for Sam to be able to figure out how to create his own spells. Where Gabriel had been lazy in his magical abilities Sam had been proactive; it’s a good thing, too, because even Gabriel has learned a few new tricks since they bonded. Castiel and Dean haven’t interacted much with Sam and Gabriel; the pair has a good symbiosis between them, and it’s a proven thing that Dean or Castiel’s presence throws them off. 

Not that that stops Dean, overprotective big brother that he is. Although now, at least, when he messes with Gabriel it’s (mostly) with familial comfort.

It’s been a few hours since Dean laid down. It’s closer to midnight and Castiel hasn’t eaten yet, instead choosing to ruminate on the day’s events. Even recalling the battles in his mind, he’s in awe. The sated smile that Dean shot him at the end of the simulation, his eyes youthful and body tired but satisfied… it had taken Castiel’s breath away. 

He has no pointers to give. 

Dean is perfect.

He looks down into his teacup. The last dregs are visible, dissolved tea leaves arranging themselves in a fortune Castiel can’t be bothered to read.

He knows what it says. 

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice makes Castiel’s head turn towards the stairs, where he’s coming down, knuckling his eyes. He’s wearing sleep pants and a threadbare t-shirt, feet bare and hair mussed. Castiel pulls his gaze away. “Hello, Dean. Did you rest well?”

“Mmm,” Dean hums in the affirmative. His voice gets farther instead of closer, and Castiel surmises he’s on his way to the kitchen. “You eat?” 

Castiel unfurls from the couch and carries his teacup to the kitchen, where Dean is standing in front of the open fridge and staring blankly at the contents. “I did not. Are you hungry?’

He tries not to think about how easy it has been for Dean to assimilate into his private space and become comfortable enough to raid his fridge in the middle of the night. 

“Mmm,” another noncommittal noise and then Dean yawns big, reaching up a hand to cover the stretch of his mouth. “Fuck. M’tired.” 

“Sit,” Castiel puts his teacup in the sink and rinses it out, before gesturing towards the bartop. “I’ll make something quick.” 

Dean doesn’t argue as he moves to sit at the island, resting his elbows on the counter and resting his chin in his hands. “Thanks.” 

Castiel moves quietly. He fixes them sandwiches on toasted bread, assembling the meat, cheese, and vegetables the way he’s seen Dean do dozens of times. Dean’s gets extra chipotle mayo, Castiel gets extra pickles. He brings the sandwiches and two glasses of water to where Dean is seated, perching himself on the stool next to him. He waits a moment, watching Dean look at his sandwich like it hung the moon, and then finds a smile curling his own lips as Dean lifts the sandwich and takes a huge bite, letting out a satisfied groan. 

Castiel starts eating as well, although much quieter. 

They sit in companionable silence, only the crunch of bread and vegetables and the clinks of their glasses disrupting the quiet. When their plates have only crumbs on them Castiel stands up to clear the mess, cleaning up, enjoying having Dean’s company without pretense of anything - just… coexisting. 

“What’s in store for tomorrow?” Dean asks, voice a little bit perkier but still tired around the edges. 

“Tomorrow we will not be projecting our astral forms,” Castiel says. “Tomorrow’s ritual will be difficult… but not physically straining.” 

Dean sends Castiel a lopsided grin. “Sounds kinda ominous, Cas.”

“Hasn’t this whole ritual been ominous?” Castiel counters with a bit of amusement.

“I s’pose,” Dean shrugs. “Haven’t scared me off, yet.” 

Castiel chews his lower lip as he rinses the plates clean of suds and sets them in the drying rack. “The task tomorrow will be… emotional. You and I have bonded physically, through our magic and our sparring. The next step is to become… spiritually connected.”

Dean snorts. “What, we gonna talk about our feelings?” 

“We will lay ourselves bare,” Castiel says, grabbing a dish towel to dry his hands and level Dean with his serious gaze. “There must be no secrets between us in order for our bond to solidify.”

Dean’s eyebrows bounce up his forehead. “Uh- dude, there’s things I haven’t even told Sammy.” 

“I understand talking about your feelings makes you… uncomfortable,” Castiel says. Dean’s eyes narrow. “But it is important we do this. Gabriel and Sam have surpassed our bond, but ours runs the risk of being more… volatile.” 

“‘Cause you’re an ass,” Dean grumbles.

“Because we are _different_ ,” Castiel bristles. “If you could refrain from insulting me, that would be a good place to start.”

Dean looks properly cowed, folding his arms over his chest as he glares at the counter. “Fine.” 

“Dean,” Castiel sighs. “I know we have many differences and struggle to get along. But we must put that aside and instead put our trust in one another. We will not survive, if we don’t.” 

Dean’s brows are furrowed - less of a glare, more of a concerned gaze as he seems to work through some of his thoughts. After a few moments he finally says, “You’re right. I’ll do better.”

Castiel is taken aback by Dean’s submission. He blinks a few times, repeating the words over and over in his head, and then he finds himself frowning. He leans across the island, his fingers gently touching Dean’s forearm, an odd sensation twisting in his gut when their skin comes into contact. “It is not that you aren’t doing your best, Dean. You are making all of my expectations and more.” Dean’s green eyes flicker up, regarding Castiel curiously. He doesn’t move Castiel’s fingers from his skin. “We will have obstacles to overcome. It is up to us to help each other, not cause roadblock.” 

Dean seems to soften around the edges a bit. He nods, now shifting away from Castiel’s touch as he stands up from his stool and tucks it under the bartop. “You’re right. And uh- y’know…” he rubs the back of his neck, not meeting Castiel’s gaze. “Bein’ with you these past few days hasn’t been awful. So, uh. There’s that.” 

That’s as close to a compliment as Castiel is going to get from Dean, so he takes it as is. “Go sleep, Dean. Tomorrow’s task does not have a time limit - it will only end when we have completed it.” 

Nodding, Dean turns and leaves the kitchen. Castiel watches him go, and once he’s alone he slumps slightly, running a hand through his hair. He is, of course, worried about how tomorrow will go with someone as emotionally closed-off as Dean… but at the same time, Castiel is worried about himself, as well. He hasn’t opened up to another human, other than Gabriel or Benny, in far too long. At this point he assumes his brother and best friend will automatically understand what he needs without extrapolation, but he knows he can’t expect that of Dean. 

Gabriel and Sam’s bond had flourished earlier, easier, because of their romantic connection.

Dean and Castiel don’t have that luxury. 

Fire and ice.

Day five of the ritual will be the truest test. 

Castiel closes his eyes and tips his head back, sighing softly as he lets everything sink in. 

He should have had more tea.


	13. Bound

Settled on their respective cushions, Dean arches a brow as Castiel scoots his slightly closer. They’re still a little sleep-rumpled, this morning’s breakfast having consisted of apples and protein shakes, both of them still relatively too wiped from yesterday to do anything more fancy. In his hands Castiel is holding a vine of some sort; Dean’s eyes run the length of it curiously, and then his attention raises back to Castiel’s face when the man starts speaking. They’re both comfortable in their pajamas, the basement quiet and still around them. 

“As I mentioned last night, today will be… emotional,” Castiel says. 

Dean licks his lips and then swallows. “Ok.” If he hadn’t been so exhausted from everything that news would have probably kept him up last night - emotions and Dean Winchester don’t mix too well - but he’d been so exhausted from the simulation that he passed out pretty much the instant his head touched the pillow.

“This vine represents our bond,” Castiel continues. He holds up the vine; Dean watches as it limply falls through the spaces between long fingers. “As it is, it is rather dull, is it not?” 

“S’a vine,” Dean says, a bit gruffly. He reaches up to scratch the back of his head idly. Metaphors aren’t really his thing. It’s too early to be poetic.

Castiel, miraculously, doesn’t look irritated. “Look at it, Dean.” 

Rolling his eyes a little, Dean allows his gaze to look over the length of the vine once more. It looks to be about ten feet long, four inches in diameter, wound and draped over Castiel’s hands and forearms and pooled in his lap. Castiel scoots closer again, and with both of them sitting in lotus, their knees almost touch. 

“Hands,” Castiel says softly.

Dean lifts his arms and holds out his hands, palms up, in the space between them. Castiel leans forward a bit to start winding the vine around Dean’s forearms as well. The color of the vine changes from dull brown, shifting into a muted, mossy green as it touches more and more of his skin. Dean’s brows raise with interest. 

“As our life forces connect, we are able to do so much,” Castiel says, voice reverent. 

Dean tries not to shudder with each pass of Castiel’s fingertips across his skin. They don’t touch outside of necessity - unless it’s for spells, or as of yesterday, with fists. To feel Castiel’s gentle touch over his skin, as he winds the vine between them, has Dean’s brain fizzling out and stretching in a dozen different directions. It’s been easy to squash his attraction to Castiel deep, deep down, but in moments like this it’s easy to forget all the crap between them and feel… _ok_ with the fact that he is, indeed, attracted to Castiel, and maybe even start to be ok with the fact that it runs deeper than attraction alone. 

“There is no judgment today. Only listening. We will confess our deepest secrets. Dishonesty will only move us backwards.”

Castiel tugs slightly on the vine, causing Dean’s shoulders to come forward a fraction. It draws him back into the moment and he realizes that he and Castiel are holding each other’s forearms, the vine loosely wound around their arms up to their shoulders, the ends of it now in either of their laps. Castiel’s hands are huge on Dean’s forearm, Dean eyeing the contrast of his freckled skin against Castiel’s tanned and tattooed fingers, then forces himself to look up into Castiel’s features. 

Castiel’s eyes are steady, deep as the night sky as he speaks. “Only you and my brother know I am a homosexual.”

The air rushes out of Dean’s lungs, surprised at Castiel’s words. This is how it’s going to be, huh? Castiel had said they need to lay themselves bare, and coming out the gate with that sets the tone for the whole experience. 

With Castiel’s admission the vine tightens of its own accord across Dean’s bicep.

Oh. The ritual has started with Castiel’s blunt confession.

Exhaling slowly, Dean once again focuses his gaze on Castiel’s. Deepest, darkest secrets, huh? On Castiel’s lead, Dean says, “I was too afraid to admit to myself that I’m bisexual, until I met you.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the vine wind its way between Castiel’s armpit and slither up his back to drape across his shoulder and over his collarbone. Castiel closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them again. 

“I’ve killed men.” A pause. “A dozen, at least.” 

Dean swallows. On his other arm the vine slides up his shoulder to drape loosely around his throat. It’s not tight or heavy, but the pressure is insistent. Admitting these things to each other should be scary, downright terrifying- but the vine and Castiel’s quiet concentration is bolstering in ways Dean doesn’t really understand.

“I used to gamble. Told myself I was doin’ it to help me n’ Sammy with money but… I got addicted to hustling. Got in a lot of trouble for it. Got a lot of good people hurt.” 

“I have robbed a bank at gunpoint.” 

“My biggest fear growin’ up was disappointing my dad. Even though he’s dead now, when I do somethin’ wrong, I still look over my shoulder expectin’ to see him with his arms over his chest, chin tucked, eyes hard.” 

“I feel guilty for my mother’s death. She was sick. She refused healing. There was nothing I could do for her.”

As they confess to each other, the vine tightens. It spreads, twists, binds. They’re still holding each other’s forearms just below the elbows, but now their knees are overlapping, the vine pulling them physically closer and closer. Dean’s heart is pounding, his head is foggy, dredging up memories from the past causing his breath to do weird things. Is he even breathing?

No discussion, just statements.

They keep going. He doesn’t know how much time passes. He just knows that they hold eye contact the entire time, Castiel’s expression slowly breaking composure with each confession. Dean doesn’t need to see his own reflection to know he probably looks wrecked, lashes wet, cheeks flushed. 

He feels like he’s being wrung from the inside out, every emotion he’s ever felt in his life suddenly seeping out of his pores.

“I love Sammy so much,” Dean says, his voice breaking slightly. “I’d do anything for him. Promised my dad I’d keep him safe and I didn’t even… I didn’t even know about any of this. Swore myself to him. S’why when you…” he licks his lips. “...recruited me, I didn’t fight it. ‘Cause I had to protect Sammy.” 

Neither of them mention the fact that this is the first time Dean hasn’t used the word ‘blackmail’ in reference to Castiel bringing him on. 

“Jack is like a son to me.” Those words crack through Dean sharp as a whip. “His mother died when he was a baby. Many family members looked after him, but I have always kept the closest watch. I have seen him grow, been there for all of his accomplishments. When Lucifer took him away I almost-” Castiel drops his gaze briefly, for the first time in hours. “I almost burned the city to the ground looking for him.” 

Dean would have to be blind to not see how deeply Castiel cares for Jack. It’s in the paternal touches, the soft encouragements and gentle demeanor that Castiel spares on no one else. It’s in the way Jack looks at Castiel like he’s the center of the universe, like he’s the only one worth doing anything for. Dean is reminded slightly of his own relationship with Sam. 

“Seeing you take care of him…” Castiel’s voice is soft, eyes on Dean’s once more. “Feels like the closest thing to an actual family that I have ever had.” 

The vine wraps Dean’s chest in a tight hug. 

“I think Gabriel’s pretty cool,” Dean admits. “He gets on my nerves but he makes Sam happy and I… haven’t really seen that before. I’ll still kick his ass if he breaks his heart, but Gabe… is a pretty neat dude. I just can’t let my big brother guard down.” 

That causes Castiel to smile, the vine winding around his waist. “I think you are a wonderful brother.” 

The vine squeezes Dean’s calf. 

They’re both so bound barely anything but the vine is visible. Their soft sleep shirts are wrinkled and rumpled, their pajama pants disheveled where the vine has pulled the material up at the hem. Only their heads are completely free, even if the vine on Dean is trailing slowly up the curve of his neck to settle against the angle of his jaw. Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel claustrophobic or panicked. The vine is an extension of them, their heartbeats passing through it, and Dean had thought only sex could bring him so close to a person, but this is stealing the show. 

He feels more connected to Castiel than he does to even himself, in this moment. 

He still doesn’t know how much time has elapsed. 

“I’m afraid,” Dean finally says, voice breaking. 

Castiel’s reply is quiet, “I am, too.” 

“But if I’m gonna go down,” Dean continues. The vine shifts and slithers, causing his fingers to squeeze Castiel’s arms gently, “I’m gonna do it swinging, right next to you.” 

Castiel’s breath hitches. The smile that spreads on his features is breathtaking and Dean’s heart tries to lodge itself in his throat. 

“It would be my honor, Dean.” 

The vine glows bright and with a startling _snap!_ it bursts into light fragments, sparks raining down over Dean and Castiel. Dean watches the show, eyes wide, hands still gripping Castiel’s forearms as the light fades and the sparks fizzle into nothingness. With his lungs no longer constricted by the vines he takes in a few hazardous breaths, oxygen flooding his system and dizzying his brain; he looks up to see a similar bewildered expression on Castiel’s features, and the look is so foreign on the normally stoic man, Dean feels a giggle burst free from his mouth. 

And then another.

Another.

And then Dean is falling forward into Castiel, unable to stop laughing loudly and brightly, his whole frame trembling with laughter. Castiel catches him and Dean’s face is in his chest; Castiel smells earthy, musky, citrus undertones inspiring Dean to give a big whiff. 

Which makes Castiel laugh and fall backwards.

Dean feels lighter than air. His soul had been laid bare and while the past few hours have pretty much been the most stressful and daunting time he’s ever experienced, he feels _good_. He props himself up, finally aware of the fact that he has Castiel pinned to the ground, and he smiles down at the other man, totally unguarded.

Castiel’s smile is much more reserved, but his eyes are warm. He doesn’t seem bothered that Dean is between his legs and atop him. 

Dean doesn’t really feel bothered, either.

They stay like that, suspended in an odd sense of glee and relief, until Dean’s arms grow weak. He moves off of Castiel and sits next to him, reaching a hand up to run his fingers through his hair. Tipping his head back and closing his eyes he rolls his joints, works his limbs, and tries to stretch out the stiffness from being bound and stiff for who knows how long. 

“I will start dinner,” Castiel says as he stands up slowly, probably also feeling as stiff as Dean. 

Dean runs a hand over his face and watches Castiel leave the basement. The earthy, citrusy scent leaves with him and it takes a Dean a few more minutes to gather himself before he gets up as well, intent on having a shower. He climbs up the basement steps and peeks into the kitchen to see Castiel washing his hands at the sink, suds up to his elbows, and then Dean smiles to himself before he heads up the stairs to the second floor. 

Getting into the shower is an experience. Dean still feels light, but he also feels like he could sleep for ten years. He’s never said any of what he said today to anyone but Castiel. Which was more than likely the actual purpose of this ritual - to absolve their sins, lay out their fears, and start on a clean slate - but Dean still feels slightly off-kilter. 

Not in a bad way.

Just… in a new way. 

There was one thing he _didn’t_ tell Castiel, though.

As he runs the soap over his body Dean frowns softly at himself. He hadn’t brought up his attraction to Castiel for a handful of reasons. First and foremost, Dean is pretty sure he just feels this way because his life has revolved solely around Castiel for the past year. Stuck in close quarters with the guy - especially over the past week - is probably fucking with his head. He’s always thought Castiel was attractive, but he’s still of the opinion the guy is a dick.

… Sort of.

His mind supplies him with various images, then: Castiel cooking dinner, Castiel with sleepy bedhead, Castiel smiling into a cup of coffee, Castiel’s eyes closed as he listens to orchestral music. 

Dean opens his eyes in surprise, staring at the white tiles of the shower. 

His brain continues.

Castiel frowning when he’s confused, or getting irritated with Dean’s attitude. Castiel’s cool, calculated gaze as Dean fights off monsters. The electricity unrelated to magic that passes through their bodies when they touch. Or is that just Dean? 

Shit.

Dean drops the bottle of shampoo and scrambles to pick it up, his heart racing and his groin tightening with arousal.

“No,” he says firmly to himself. He lets out a breath and then starts washing his hair, closing his eyes and keeping his back to the spray. 

He can’t let his stupid, weird crush on Castiel get in the way of things. They’ve got a good thing going - a true, fighting chance - and Dean refuses to complicate things. When the ritual is over and they’re bonded they’ll be able to formulate a plan to take down Lucifer, world peace will be restored, yadda yadda.

He’ll be able to return to his regular life. 

It’s all just Dean, anyway. He’s not under the illusion that just because Castiel is gay and he’s bisexual that there’s anything between them. Castiel is odd, quirky even, and he’s pretty much always vaguely confused by human interaction. Dean’s pretty sure the guy wouldn’t know if someone is attracted to him even if they dropped to their knees in front of him.

Isn’t _that_ a visual.

Dean tenses his jaw. 

In any case, he pushes all of those thoughts deep, deep into the recesses of his mind. He’ll squash down this stupid crush and then probably be fine as soon as they’re not basically living together. Space will be good for Dean’s sanity. 

Hell, maybe when this is all over he’ll finally be able to get laid. 

He snorts to himself.

One more day.

\--

Day six has a different feel to it than the previous five. Dean can’t quite put his finger on it. They eat breakfast silently, Castiel scowling into his oats, and Dean drinks probably way too much coffee. 

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Dean asks. He’d thought that after yesterday he and Castiel would be on more even ground, but today Castiel has reverted back into his cranky, grumpy self, and Dean is doing his best to not be annoyed by it.

Dean’s question seems to only irk Castiel further. The man straightens and pushes his bowl away, barely any bites taken. “Today is the final day of the ritual.” 

Dean can’t help the “Good job, you can count” that comes out of his mouth.

Castiel’s glare cuts through him. “ _Dean_.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean gathers their bowls. His own is empty but Castiel is clearly not in the mood to eat. He starts cleaning up, staying quiet, giving Castiel the chance to talk. Even though they’re bickering there’s something else underlying the interaction, softening the blows. 

The bond, Dean thinks.

“Today… we brand each other.” 

That makes Dean pause. “Like the weird fingerprints on my chest?”

Castiel frowns at the counter. “A mark much more powerful.” 

Remembering Castiel once saying that this would happen, Dean soaps up the dish sponge and starts slowly running it over the bowl in his hands. “...Ok…” He thinks over Castiel’s words. “Wait- each other? I’m gonna mark you too?” 

Castiel nods. 

Dean snorts in amusement. “Good.”

“What do you mean by that?” Castiel asks. He seems to be less agitated now, but more… anxious?

Dean rinses the bowl and puts it on the drying rack. It’s a little weird to be so in tune with Castiel’s emotions, considering the guy usually has the emotional spectrum of a robot. “You’ve got your paws all over me. S’gonna be nice to return the favor.” 

Castiel’s brows furrow. “Dean, we will wear these marks until we die. We will be bonded until death parts us.”

Well, when he puts it like that… Dean glances up at Castiel, working through his thoughts. “After we take down Lucifer, we’ll still be bonded.”

Castiel nods. 

“That’s fine,” Dean says with a shrug, picking up the other bowl.

“That’s ‘fine’?” Castiel repeats. All of the talking he’s done in the past week has apparently maxed out his ability to speak easily, and his accent has gotten progressively thicker. Dean refuses to think it’s cute. “Dean, this ritual is ir… re…” Dean looks up just in time to see Castiel run a harried hand through his messy hair. “You cannot take it back.” 

Oh no, it’s cute.

“I figured as much when this whole thing started,” Dean tries to stay casual. “I’ve gotten over how fucked up it all is. Fate of the world an’ all that.” 

“What about after?” Castiel asks. His voice takes on a weird tone. Dean stops washing, regarding Castiel carefully. “If we kill Lucifer, save the world… put things right. What will you do after, Dean, when you are still bonded to me in a free world?” 

Dean rests his hip against the counter. He starts washing the bowl again, slower, eyes watching the suds fall over the curve of the dish. “Are you askin’ about… my love life?” Another look up at Castiel shows the other man’s features set in a scowl. Dean can’t help it - he laughs. “Man, don’t worry about it. Gonna be weird explaining some sort of brand to someone, but uh… y’know, I’ve been thinkin’ anyway- anyone I try to date has gotta know who I am, right? What I am.” He shrugs, returning to doing the dishes. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout how whoever I end up settling down with… needs to know everything about me. I used to be so quick to jump into bed with women, didn’t even know their last names when they left the next morning. I’m too old for that now, and not only that- I’m tired of it. Whoever comes next… it’s gotta be special. And if it’s special enough, then they’ll know about this-” he gestures with the soapy sponge between them. “-all of this. And if they ain’t ok with it, they can take a hike. ‘Cause this is part of my life now, the magic and… everything.”

Castiel stays quiet. Dean finishes the dishes and arranges them better in the dishrack so they’ll dry properly, and then grabs the dish towel off of the oven door handle to start drying his hands. His honesty surprises himself. 

“What about you?” Dean turns the question around on Castiel. “Anyone you’re with is gonna have the same questions.” 

Castiel’s scowl softens into something a bit more sad. “Romantic relationships are not something I am currently looking into, now or in the future.” 

Dean arches a brow. “Not that it’s any of my business, but uh… sounds kinda lonely, dude.”

“I find great fulfillment in my family,” Castiel supplies plainly, clearly believing that as he brings his gaze up to Dean’s pointedly. “My new family.”

Well. Doesn’t that make Dean warm and fuzzy on the inside? 

As well as potentially steer him into the bro-zone. 

Awesome.

He pushes the feeling of disappointment away and replaces it with what he hopes is a convincing smile. It’s better this way.

It’s just a stupid crush. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Dean finally says. Then, again for clarity in case Castiel misinterprets it, “If you ever do decide to date, don’t sell yourself short.”

Castiel’s eyes track over Dean’s features and for a moment, he feels way too exposed. Damn it, the bond. If Dean can make heads and tails of Castiel’s emotions, no doubt Castiel can do the same to him. The question is, now, whether or not Castiel will let Dean continuously bullshit him. Dean breaks the moment by putting the dish towel back on the handle and then clapping his hands together.

“Alright. Mark me.” 

Castiel’s eyes go dark and oh, shit. Heat flashes through Dean and Jesus Christ, how many emotions can a person go through in twenty-four hours before they go clinically insane? The sound of Castiel’s stool moving over the floor breaks Dean’s concentration and he goes past the eat-in kitchen table towards the dining room table in the next room, where magic supplies have been laid out and utilized since day one. Well- Dean has played with them, anyway, under Castiel’s careful supervision. He follows, trying to rein in his frazzled thoughts. Castiel stays silent as he starts mixing up dry ingredients in a bowl, Dean hovering nearby to try and decipher what he’s using.

He can’t concentrate. 

“What if you cannot date?” Castiel says suddenly. He looks small in his jersey tee and black sweats, tattoos especially dark this morning, but his voice is huge as it slams into Dean. 

“What do you mean?” Dean asks. 

“You will wear my brand on your skin,” Castiel continues, not looking up at Dean as he works. “I imagine your future lovers will be… jealous.” 

Dean folds his arms over his chest. “Toldja. If they can’t handle it, they can scram.”

“You would be, essentially, choosing me over them,” Castiel observes. His voice has that weird tone in it again. 

“I… guess,” Dean finally replies. 

“Would you blame me if you were to stay single?” Blue eyes flick up towards Dean.

Dean shakes his head, not liking the fact that Castiel seems to be feeling guilty. “No. This is something we gotta do, man. The fate of the world is a bit more important than whether or not I’m gonna get my dick wet again.”

Castiel _snorts_. He finishes the dry ingredients and starts pouring liquids into the bowl. Dean squints. Sometimes Castiel surprises him with what references he understands. 

Anything related to sex is usually right over his head. 

Clearly this is a sign they’re spending too much time together.

“You have matured in the last year, Dean,” Castiel says.

Now it’s Dean’s time to snort, folding his arms over his chest. “And you’ve lost at least half the stick in your ass.” 

Castiel sends Dean a _look_ and lights a match to drop it into the concoction, blue and green flames sparking up into the air. He doesn’t even flinch. He grabs the hem of his shirt, starting to pull it up over his head and off of his body without ceremony. 

Dean’s mouth goes dry. 

He’s never seen Castiel shirtless before.

The first thing Dean notices is that Castiel is as thick as he looks under his clothing. There are dips and planes on his body that no article of clothing could accentuate, and Dean can’t help the way his eyes rove over them. Castiel’s pecs are round, his dark nipples hard, a faint dusting of dark hair shadowing his inked skin. His oblique muscles look like angel wings where they flex over his ribs and there’s a sharp, v-shaped cut where his hips disappear into the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants.

And the _tattoos_. Good God. There isn’t a patch of skin that isn’t covered in them. The cyrillic lettering and sigils that span up from knuckle to shoulder litter bronze flesh and smatter over Castiel’s chest and stomach, collarbones and hips, charred feathers filling any gaps. Dean has always been mildly fascinated with the ink but now seeing it like this is… woah. Mother Mary is faded on Castiel’s breast and different, fresher tattoos of symbols and sigils cover the old ink. The portrait is greatly out of place on Castiel’s body, and Dean really wants to ask about it, but he holds back. Another time, maybe. The cirrus clouds that are almost always visible on his neck actually curl over the round of his shoulders and disappear where Dean can’t see on his back, and when his eyes drop again he sees ink disappearing beneath the waistband of Castiel’s sweatpants. 

He wants to see so bad. 

Bring it in, buddy, come on.

Dean has never seen Castiel exert any kind of physical effort in anything, so seeing his body look the way it does, covered in ink, has Dean’s mind supplying him with gratuitous images of Castiel working out at home, sweating, panting, sweat darkening the ink on his skin--

“Dean, take off your shirt.” 

Snapping back to reality, Dean rushes to pull his sweatshirt off as well, hoping his flushed cheeks can be attributed to the material passing over his head. Now shirtless, he steps closer towards Castiel and the bowl, recalling from the last time Castiel had marked him he’d dipped his fingers in something beforehand.

He also recalls that it hurt like a bitch.

Dean glances down at his chest to look at the fingerprints spanning across freckled skin. He rubs at them absently, and then watches as Castiel dips his whole right hand into the bowl. The liquid inside is viscous and gooey, dripping thickly off of his fingers, almost black in color. 

“Dip your hand,” Castiel instructs. 

Letting out a breath, Dean puts his right hand in the mixture. It feels similar to paint, so he tries not to think about what ingredients had to actually go into the bowl to make it. There’s a jar labeled “lamb’s blood” not too far from where they’re standing, and Dean has never taken an animal anatomy course before but he _thinks_ there are testicles laying maimed on a plate. 

“You will repeat after me,” Castiel continues once Dean’s hand is coated, “and when the spell is complete, you will put your hand here.” He gestures towards his left shoulder with his clean hand. 

A handprint on the shoulder. Dean’s gaze drops to Castiel’s hand - God, his hands are _huge_ , that’s gonna be nearly impossible to cover up without wearing a long sleeved shirt. Chewing his lip, Dean nods. “Alright. Let’s do this.” 

Castiel says the first line of the spell. Dean repeats it - Castiel corrects his pronunciation on a word. The spell is five lines total, and once Castiel is sure Dean will pronounce everything correctly he squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, and stands with his feet shoulder-width apart. Dean mirrors him. The goo is dripping onto Castiel’s polished hardwood floor. 

They chant together. Dean feels the cool touch of Castiel’s magic singing through his system, combating against his own fiery powers. It’s an odd sensation, Castiel’s magic like a soothing balm. It draws Dean closer, spiritually and physically; they gravitate towards each other in small steps, chanting the spell, the floorboards shaking beneath them. Lights flicker. The sun seems to dim outside. They hold each other’s gaze and Dean sees fire in Castiel’s eyes, knows it’s reflected in his own.

He thinks about future Castiel - about how broken and desolate he’d been. 

This Castiel is not that Castiel - will never _be_ that Castiel. 

Dean will see this through. 

Their voices increase in volume as they chant. Wind rustles through the room from an invisible source. It’s warm. Castiel’s brow is furrowed in concentration and when he raises his hand Dean does the same - and then their palms are reaching out. 

The touch of Castiel’s hand to his shoulder burns. He sees sparks come from his own hand when he makes contact with Castiel’s skin, green clashing with blue between them. An explosion of power ripples through the room; pictures fall off the walls, chairs fall over, the very walls bowing dangerously. Dean and Castiel stay upright, hands in a vise grip on one another. 

Castiel’s eyes glow electric blue.

Dean’s own eyes seem to fuzz around the edges. 

The pain sears through him and Dean forces his eyes to stay open, grounding himself with the image of Castiel looking so… _powerful_. Spine straight, shoulders back. The tattoos on his skin look like they’re glowing blue, too. Where Castiel’s palm is on Dean’s shoulder it feels like he’s melting bone and flesh, the entire arm going numb, pins and needles creeping up towards his neck; Dean’s knees start to feel weak, nausea from pain swirls in his stomach--

That weird nausea from astral projection takes hold of Dean’s gut. He slams his eyes closed and sees a myriad of bright lights and colors flashing neon across the back of his lids; blood spatters through the arcs of light, sparks flying, screaming echoes through his ears. His astral eyes open and he sees bodies at his feet, unseeing eyes turned up towards a stormy sky rolling with thunder - there’s so many bodies, the stench of death filtering through his nostrils, acrid and tangy. His heart thuds, his chest feels too small, there’s so much _death_ \--

Dean gets thrown back into his body and everything suddenly becomes startlingly quiet and calm. Both Dean and Castiel are heaving breaths through shaky lungs, hands glued to each other’s arms, holding each other up. The sunlight returns. The smell of smoke lingers in the air, the scent of death and burnt flesh tinges Dean’s nose hairs.

Finger by finger Dean lets go of Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel does the same. Their skin is raised, angry, perfect imprints of their hands left behind, smoke curling up from the flesh. Dean’s handprint is proportional to Castiel’s thick shoulder, raised under black ink and pink where there is none; when he glances down at his own skin, he isn’t surprised to see that Castiel’s handprint nearly engulfs the entire curve of his shoulder. 

Castiel’s brand. 

The fingerprints on his chest match the color.

Dean’s knees finally give out.

Castiel catches him, helping break his fall as he kneels. Dean laughs deliriously to himself breaking off to a pained moan; this is the second time Castiel has caught him like this. The warlock is frowning as he regards Dean, who lifts a shaky hand to press the heel of his clean palm into his forehead. He can’t shake the weird, grisly image that stamped itself to the back of his eyelids.

“Fuck.” 

Castiel pulls away slightly, checking over Dean’s arm. “Does it hurt?”

“Jesus, yes,” Dean replies, voice hoarse. 

Castiel lets out what sounds like a relieved breath, before he stands. “It is done. The ritual is complete.” 

Dean flops back on the hard floor, starfish, staring up at the ceiling as his lungs heave. Those images fade the longer he basks in the sensation of Castiel’s power coursing through his body like river currents. He’s fine. He’s here. “‘Bout fuckin’ time.” 

“Dean,” Castiel chides quietly.

Dean slides his gaze over towards the man. Castiel is slightly out of breath as well, Dean’s eyes drawn to the way the muscles of his stomach clench and release with his breath. He subconsciously matches his breathing to his. Each hip bone has an intricate feather tattooed onto it, angling down towards...

“Thank you.” 

Unable to help it, Dean allows a smile to curl over his features at the sound of Castiel’s voice. His eyes close. 

Relief sweeps him away to slumber.

\--*--

Castiel must be going crazy. That’s why he keeps catching Dean’s gaze as they clean up the mess on the dining table - why his heart keeps doing backflips whenever Dean sends him a small smile. The ritual is complete, the bonding ceremony over, and the future that Dean had been so terrified of has ceased to exist. Perhaps that is why Dean seems so… relieved?

It has to be more than that, though.

The typical friction between them is gone. No- that’s not right. It’s not _gone_ , but they are less affected by it, it seems. 

After the pair of them slept away the afternoon they both roused at nearly the same time and ambled downstairs to the kitchen together. As Castiel took in the state of his home for the first time since starting the ritual he became suddenly aware of how… messy everything had gotten. His expression must have done something scary because Dean had immediately offered to help clean up; and that’s where they are now, the dining room nearly spotless, no words between, just the easy ebb and flow of being in each other’s company. 

Wiping his wrist across his forehead Castiel puts one hand on his hip while the other holds a broom, surveying the space. It’s spotless now and looks much like it had before two men decided to rub elbows for a week, and Castiel feels good about that. 

“Heh,” Dean laughs a little from the other side of the table.

Castiel glances up at him, tilting his head curiously.

Dean points, “You’ve got a broom.”

Castiel looks at the broom he’s holding, angling it slightly away from his body so his eyes can scan the length of it. “...Yes?”

“You’re a witch,” Dean says.

Catching on, he rolls his eyes and sends Dean a dead glance as he turns to walk out of the dining room, intending to put the broom back in the closet with the rest of the cleaning supplies. Dean is still chuckling as he follows after him, and when they’re both in the kitchen Castiel catches Dean stretching his arms over his head languidly, turning his neck this way and that.

“So it’s all done, huh?” Dean remarks, a rhetorical question.

Castiel cuts his gaze away, humming and moving towards the stove. Tea sounds good. “It is.”

“Guess I’ll be heading out in the morning.”

Tensing his jaw a little, Castiel fills the kettle and puts it on the stove before directing his attention to Dean. “I suppose you shall.” It’s a rather asinine observation, but Dean typically doesn’t bring something up unless he wants to talk about it. Dean has never been… good at expressing himself and his thoughts - that much Castiel has learned in the past week, barring their bonding session with the vine - so he has learned to be patient whenever Dean decides to try and talk seriously.

“Not gonna lie,” Dean’s voice sounds a little chagrined. Castiel watches him sit at the bartop, his body language a feigned sort of casual. “Gonna be weird not bein’ here.”

Dean’s words make Castiel realize that he’d gotten all too comfortable and familiar with having Dean as a roommate. They fit so easily together; Dean doesn’t have any obnoxious habits or preferences, he cleans up after himself, cooks well, and leaves Castiel alone when he wants space. Castiel had been more than hesitant in opening his space up to Dean for the ritual, but cohabiting had been… surprisingly easy. Even something that he felt fondly about.

But Castiel doesn’t know how to say that without scaring Dean off, so he doesn’t. 

“I miss Sammy,” Dean says softly. Castiel grabs two mugs out of the cupboard. “I miss work- Kevin and Alfie. Man,” Dean laughs lightly, “I even miss Jack.” 

Castiel can’t relate. It’s strange not having Benny on his doorstep every morning, but aside from Benny and Dean and Jack, Castiel doesn’t really… engage with anyone. He supposes now, though, after connecting with Dean, as well as with the impending battle they are facing… he could stand to be a bit more sociable. Charlie is always asking him over for game night, whatever that may consist of. 

“Benny will be here to pick you up in the morning,” Castiel says. He takes the kettle off the burner before it screams and pours them both some chamomile tea, figuring they could use an extra hand to sleep after they napped into the evening. He sets their mugs on the counter and turns to open the freezer, pulling out the ice cube tray, the holes in it shaped like various fruits. There’s an ice machine in the fridge door, but he’s seen Dean use this tray more often than not. He drops two squares into Dean’s mug and then puts the tray back in the freezer, turning around to pick up his mug and finding Dean staring at him with an unreadable expression. “...Yes?”

Dean glances down at his tea, reaching for it with his right hand slowly. “You remembered I put ice in my tea.” Green eyes shift over Castiel towards the kettle. “You also didn’t let the kettle boil all the way before pouring.”

Castiel feels the tips of his ears turn pink as he brings his mug to his lips to blow idly on the liquid. “You burned your tongue once.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise. Castiel drops his gaze to avoid the scrutiny. “That was like, two months ago, dude.”

“You whined about it for three days,” Castiel replies.

Dean snorts, taking a sip of his tea. Castiel does the same. “Just… thanks. For remembering.” 

Castiel nods a bit stiffly, drumming the fingers of his free hand over the edge of the counter. They fall into silence and Castiel is sure it’s only him that feels awkward, but… He looks up at Dean, studying the man’s features. After the emotional bond he seems much more in tune with Dean. Which is to be expected - they are bonded physically, spiritually, _soulfully_ \- but he wasn’t expecting this level of connection. Every little nuance in Dean’s voice, as well as the things he chooses not to say...

Suddenly Sam and Gabriel’s bond seems much more realistic. 

Keeping that thought to himself, Castiel leans against the counter with his hip. “How do you feel?”

Dean shrugs, slurping his tea before setting his mug down. “I dunno. Uh… light, I guess?” Castiel tips his head. Dean puffs his cheeks out in thought for a moment. “Like- before the ritual I was just… y’know, unsure about everything. ‘Bout you and all of this. But now that I know what’s goin’ on, and now that we’re bonded and I know we’ve got a chance to stop Lucifer… I don’t feel so bogged down.” 

“You were afraid,” Castiel remembers, surprise lacing his voice. He recalls Dean saying it out loud during the vine ceremony, and feels bad for forgetting.

Dean doesn’t meet his gaze, instead staring down at his tea. “Yeah. I was.” 

Dean has always been so headstrong, so cocksure - at least, that’s what Castiel had thought. Clearly he’d been duped. Which is unsurprising, given the fact that Castiel has a difficult time reading people in any circumstance… and Dean has proven himself to be a very good actor. Pushing his way through life with a veil of confidence he didn’t feel in his gut. Lifting a hand to scratch his fingers over his stubble, Castiel frowns. 

“I am sorry you were afraid, Dean,” he says. “I never thought…” he licks his lips. “For some reason, fear is not an emotion that I relate to you.” 

Dean snorts, “That’s ‘cause you’re callin’ the shots.” Castiel frowns deeper. Dean’s grin is crooked, slightly self-deprecating. “I’ve always been good at following orders. Gotta lock down emotions in order to do that. Easy to not be scared when someone else is behind the wheel.”

“Dean,” Something twists in Castiel’s chest. “Do not do that to me.”

Dean looks up at Castiel, confused. “What?” 

“Do not put aside yourself for me,” Castiel says. The grammar sounds wrong even to his own ears but he ignores it. He abandons his tea on the counter and rounds the island, standing directly in front of Dean. He wants to touch him, shake him, do _something_ \- but he chooses to stand just within reach, jaw set and fists clenched. “We are bonded now. You cannot hide your feelings from me.”

“I gathered,” Dean says a bit dryly, sighing and running fingers through his hair. “I feel what you feel, our emotions are one, yadda yadda.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel can’t hide his impatience. Dean meets his gaze, stubborn as ever. “I was once your boss, but I am no longer. I am your bonded. You do not take _orders_ from me.”

Dean’s jaw flexes, but there’s something in his eyes that twists that feeling in Castiel’s gut even sharper. “What else am I gonna do, Cas? I don’t know how to fight a magical war. I don’t know what to do. I’ve trained, and I’ve bonded with you, but I’m still blind. Just a weapon for you to use.”

Castiel’s hands fly up to Dean’s head, cupping either side of his face gently despite the speed, forcing him to keep eye contact as he crowds close. Dean tenses but doesn’t pull away, lips parted, pupils dilated, Castiel standing between his knees. “You are an _asset_. You are my protector, my hunter, you are now my _everything_. I will not tolerate you talking badly about yourself. I need you, Dean.”

A beat of silence passes between them, time seemingly suspended as they stare into each other’s eyes. Very slowly Dean’s hands reach up so his fingers can wrap around Castiel’s wrists, pressing his palms more solidly into his head. Castiel’s thumbs rest on the height of his cheekbones and Dean takes a deep breath before closing his eyes and giving one, slow nod. 

“Alright,” Dean says softly.

Castiel relaxes, lessening the pressure of his hands on Dean’s head. “Some time apart will be good for both of us.” He dreads it, and can already feel the weight of the Dean-sized hole that will be left behind.

Dean nods, eyes still closed.

Castiel can’t help but sweep his thumbs over Dean’s cheekbones before he drops his hands. Dean’s fingers slide along the insides of his wrists and Castiel takes a big step away, making sure he’s breathing properly. “Go to bed, Dean.”

Dean downs the rest of his cool tea in one go and then stands, tucking the stool under the bartop and walking past Castiel to leave the kitchen, not meeting his eyes again. Once alone Castiel lets out a sigh, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, applying firm pressure against the headache trying to take over.

It is definitely time to be apart. The line between them, fragile and delicate as it has always been, is starting to blur and Castiel can _not_ risk that. Not after everything they’ve been through in the past year - in the past week - and everything they are about to encounter. 

They’ll be apart for a few days, have a chance to clear their heads, and be back to normal.

Well, as normal as a bonded warlock and hunter can be.

Castiel steeps a second teabag. The handprint on his shoulder gives a dull throb.

The ritual is over, he reminds himself.

Now the true story begins.


	14. Wired

Things return to about as normal as they can be, what with a supernatural war looming in the near future. Dean goes back to running the cafe, Castiel returns to checking on the women he’s brought into his protection, and Sam and Gabriel continue to do… whatever they do in all the time they spend together. Jack is balancing working at both the bookstore and the cafe - at the end of each day he has plenty of stories to tell Castiel while they sit in front of the fireplace, Jack with hot cocoa and Castiel with tea. It’s the calm before the storm and while Castiel is trying not to let his guard down, it’s difficult.

He and Dean haven’t spent an extended amount of time together in the past two weeks. After Dean had left Castiel’s house when the ritual was over, he had to throw himself back into work to bring the cafe back up to speed. Kevin had done well in charge, but there were certain things he couldn’t do on his own; instead of stressed, though, Dean just seemed ready to get back into the groove. They exchange texts every now and again, or Castiel will pop into the cafe to say hello and grab a coffee if he’s in the neighborhood - but Castiel doesn’t want to infringe on Dean’s need for personal space, so he relies mostly on Jack’s nightly regaling of the day’s events to count as his social interactions. 

Besides, listening to Jack gush about Dean and Sam, speaking of them in such high regard, fills Castiel with a warmth he’s been missing for the past… oh, decade or so. Castiel loves these moments; because in other moments, when Jack thinks no one is looking, there’s a lingering aura of sadness around him. 

“When will Dean be coming over again?” Jack asks, fingers curled around his steaming mug. His knees are drawn up to his chest and a blanket is wrapped around his frame; it’s not cold by any means, the end of summer still sticky hot. Castiel has noticed he seeks comfort in blankets and pillows, lately. 

“Hm?” Castiel moves his gaze from the fireplace to Jack. His head tilts. “I… do not know. Why?” 

“He misses you,” Jack says simply. He takes a sip of his cocoa and adjusts the blanket so it tucks under his toes. 

Blinking a few times, Castiel tries to process Jack’s words. “He… misses me.” 

Jack smiles broadly. “He does! I don’t think he would ever say it out loud, but I can tell.” He nods, sure of himself. 

“What makes you say that?” Castiel’s heart is tripping in his chest. Now that they are bonded they technically should be seeing each other in person more often so they can keep the magic channeling steadily between them, but Castiel has been doing his best to respect Dean’s independence. Mafia or not - magical bond or not - Dean is still his own person. And as hard as it is for Castiel to be physically separated by many miles from Dean, he does his best to cope. 

Jack sends Castiel an amused look, like he should already know. “I just can. Have you spent extra time together since the ritual?” 

Castiel shifts a little, drawing his legs up to sit criss cross on his cushion. He rests his mug in the small space in his lap, staring down at the few tea leaves floating aimlessly. “No.” 

“You two are better together,” Jack says plainly.

“Because we are bonded,” Castiel replies.

“No,” Jack’s tone stays simple and direct. 

Castiel squints over at Jack. “I don’t understand.” 

“You are happier when you are together,” Jack continues. He drains his mug and stands up. “Both of you are. Shouldn’t you spend time with the person that makes you happy?” 

Castiel blinks at Jack’s back as he retreats to the kitchen to put his mug away. The sound of his footsteps fading as he ascends the stairs to head to his bedroom bounce in Castiel’s head for a few extra paces even when they stop, and Castiel turns his gaze towards the fireplace. Of course, it’s not news to anyone with eyes that Castiel relaxes in a way he never has with anyone else, when he’s with Dean. Even Castiel is aware of it, which is perhaps why he tries to tone it down or even avoid Dean on some days he feels like he has particularly weak resolve. He’s well aware of the fact that he’s changed more in the past year than he has in the last ten, and the obvious variable is Dean. Benny notices but only sends Castiel an occasional twinkly eye; Charlie notices and sends him smug smiles; Gabriel notices and usually takes it an obnoxious step further; but Jack - sweet Jack - notices and actually has the guts to say anything (nice). 

Jack is merely making an observation out loud. Castiel is fairly certain Jack doesn’t even know what the definition of ‘ulterior motive’ is, which is plenty fine, and definitely helps Castiel’s sanity on most days. 

Chewing his lip, Castiel stares at the blue base of the heatless flames crackling in the fireplace. He has always felt drawn to Dean, since the moment he laid eyes on him in Quincy Market. How could he not? Dean is handsome, and not just in the conventional way; his personality only adds to his charm. The more Castiel gets to know him the more he gets drawn in and there had been one frightening moment during the ritual week, brushing elbows with Dean in the kitchen while they cleaned up after a meal, that Castiel had thought to himself ‘I could get used to this’. 

He knows better. 

No matter the shared glances, the moments their hands linger just a second too long, Castiel knows that the feeling that blooms in his chest every time verdant eyes and a boyish grin meet his gaze has to be controlled. Feelings - deep feelings - will blind them, and they can’t take the risk during battle. Their heads and hearts need to be clear so they can focus.

It’s a tactical decision, Castiel tells himself, every time he ignores the way his heart flutters when he sees Dean. 

But Jack’s words come back to haunt him. Surely Dean ‘misses’ him - and that term is used very loosely in Castiel’s mind - because their bond is stretching slightly thin with physical distance. The magic between them is weaker the farther apart they are and it sometimes can manifest as an ache, either physical or emotional, in the chest. At that thought Castiel rubs his own chest idly through his shirt, brow furrowing slightly. 

Wherever Dean is right now, Castiel knows he feels the same odd pang. Is he busy? It’s not terribly late, so there’s a chance he’s still at the cafe closing up shop. Does Dean pause and rub his chest like Castiel does? Or does he ignore it? 

Castiel shakes himself loose. He needs to get his mind off of Dean. 

Naturally, his mind turns to Lucifer.

He looks at the stairs and knows Jack isn’t asleep yet, so he stands up and takes care of his mug before heading up towards Jack’s room. He knocks softly on the door and receives a welcome; it’s been a while since he’s been in Jack’s room and he smiles softly to himself, taking it in. It wouldn’t win any home decor awards, but it’s cozy and inviting, and Castiel takes a seat on the padded chair at the desk as Jack smiles at him from where he’s reading a book on his bed. 

“Now may not be the best time to bring it up,” Castiel starts. There will probably never be a good time to bring up Lucifer. He leans over a little to rest his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together loosely, “but I would like to talk to you about your time with Lucifer.” 

Nodding in understanding, Jack places a bookmark between the pages he’s on before closing his book and putting it on his night stand. He sits up against the headboard, propping himself with a few of the many pillows which surround him. His expression has changed from warm and happy to slightly closed off and sad. It’s unsettling and foreign on his features. Once he’s comfortable, Castiel speaks.

“Why did you go with him?” 

Jack’s gaze drops a little. He fidgets idly with the hem of his shirt when he replies softly, “If I hadn’t, things would have been worse.”

Castiel keeps his gaze steady on Jack’s face. “Did he threaten you?” 

“He threatened everyone,” Jack says. “He’s very powerful, even without a bond. I…” his composure breaks fully for the first time since returning. Castiel’s heart hurts at the guilt written across his features. “I thought I was doing the right thing. He wanted to use my Sight to see the different paths he could take, and choose the one that would lead him to victory.”

Smart, Castiel thinks. Lucifer isn’t a genius by any means, but he’s street smart and cunning. Taking Jack to speculate what course of action he would need to take in order to win the war was a bold move. It’s a good thing Charlie had tracked him when she did, because Castiel has a dreadful feeling that if Jack had continued to stay in Lucifer’s clutches they would all be going down a very different road. “You did not tell him what the paths were,” Castiel finally says, meeting Jack’s gaze. “Were you punished?”

Jack shakes his head, gaze still on his lap. “Not in the beginning.” his knuckles flex a little. “Towards the end, though… he was getting impatient. He did magic on me. He suspected you would rescue me.”

Castiel’s gaze sweeps over Jack’s body. He can’t sense anything out of ordinary lurking beneath the surface, so Jack must not be cursed. “I did not sense anything when you returned.” 

Shifting, Jack shakes his head. “You wouldn’t be able to. It’s dormant.” 

“What did he do?” Castiel frowns, looking up at Jack. Alarm starts tickling at the corners of his mind. “Are you in danger?” 

Jack chews his lower lip, meeting Castiel’s gaze. “Not right now.” 

Fear seizes Castiel’s heart. “What do you mean?” 

“Lucifer has no bonded, but his magic is strong. He turned me into some sort of…” Jack struggles to find a word. His eyes are wet. “Nuclear time bomb. He couldn’t do the magic on himself, so he transferred it to me. I-” he swallows. “The magic he put inside me won’t activate until he activates it.” 

Castiel stares at Jack in disbelief. Lucifer is so out of his mind that he turned Jack, his own flesh and blood, into a magical _bomb_? Dizzy with the information, Castiel lowers his head and runs his fingers through his hair, staring at the floor between his knees. “Will you die?” 

There’s a moment of silence, before Jack replies softly, “We will all die.” 

Exhaling his breath in a whoosh, Castiel straightens and runs his hands over his face, turning his gaze towards the ceiling. Jack has been reintegrated into not only Castiel’s life, but has been introduced to the Winchester as well. He’s the perfect weapon - absolutely undetected. He could go off at any time. Either here, to take out Castiel - or at the bookstore, or even the cafe, to take out Sam and Dean. 

It’s brilliant.

It’s awful.

He should have seen this coming.

It’s so underhanded, so- … Lucifer.

Castiel’s fingers tremble minutely. He stands up, clenching his jaw to try and wrangle in his thoughts. “Why are you telling me this now? Why not when we first rescued you?” 

Jack’s heartbreak shows on his features. “I was- I’m scared. Even with war on the horizon, you are happy, Castiel.”

“My happiness is not worth the sacrifice of other people,” Castiel says sharply. 

“I’m sorry-” 

“ _Mohl-chyats._ ” Castiel snaps. 

Jack shuts up and immediately drops his gaze. 

“Tomorrow we will figure out what Lucifer did to you,” Castiel says, when he stops seeing red. “Once we discover what he did, we will reverse it-”

“You can’t,” Jack interrupts. His voice is soft, sad. “If you try to reverse the spell, I’ll go off.” 

Castiel covers his eyes with a hand, feeling despair start to bubble up in his gut and cause acid reflux in his chest and throat. He takes in a few breaths, trying to calm himself down. “I must at least figure out what spell he used. If we cannot reverse it, then we will… find something else to do.” 

“Castiel.” Jack’s voice flashes Castiel back twenty years, little Jack barely able to see over the counter tops as he asks Castiel for an apple. When Castiel opens his eyes and looks at Jack now, he sees the ghost of that innocent little boy shadowed by fear, blue eyes bright with unshed tears. “You must save yourself, not me.”

“I will at least _try_ to save you,” Castiel says. He does his best to unclench his fists, but when he can’t, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “Go to bed. You will need rest for tomorrow.” He leaves Jack’s bedroom without waiting for a reply, taking care to not slam the door behind him once he’s in the hallway. 

Now away from Jack’s eyes Castiel puts a hand over his mouth, quelling the distressed noise that wants to fall from his lips. His whole body shakes and he can’t _believe_ that Lucifer would do such a thing, go to such dark lengths - Jack is still young, he has no bonded, and his magical skill set is too different to be useful to Lucifer in the long run. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Castiel walks down the stairs again to get his phone from where it lays on the counter in the kitchen, swiping his thumb through his contacts before he can even think about it. 

Dean picks up on the third ring. “Heya, Cas.” 

“Jack is a weapon,” Castiel says without preamble.

“What?” Dean asks, confusion in his voice. 

“Jack is-” Castiel puts his hand over his eyes again, leaning against the counter as he tries to draw in even breaths, knowing his exhales rattle through the line. 

“Is he ok? Where are you? Cas?” Dean’s voice rises slightly with urgency. 

“I’m-” Castiel coughs to clear his throat, eyes feeling hot with frustrated tears. “I’m at home.”

“I’m comin’ over,” Dean says. There’s a bit of commotion in the background, a soft jingling, and then quiet. He must be closing up shop for the night. 

“Tomorrow,” Castiel says. “Come over tomorrow.”

“No, Cas, I’m comin’ over now,” Dean gruffs. “Gonna pack a bag and be there in an hour.”

Relief sings through Castiel so forcefully it takes his breath away. “Of course, Dean.” 

“Just-” the creak of the Impala’s door opening cracks through the air. “Make another cup of tea. Unplug or whatever. Turn on some music. I’ll be there soon.” 

Castiel nods, but when he remembers Dean can’t see it, he says quietly, “Thank you.” 

“Hang tight,” Dean says, and then hangs up.

Castiel puts his phone back onto the counter, wrapping his arms around himself and staring at the blank screen. Why had he called Dean? Castiel should be in the basement looking through his books so he can get a head start on research. Tomorrow he will have to cancel his rounds to the wives - no, no. He will send Benny. He picks up his phone, hating how his fingers are trembling.

There’s been a bomb in his house for months and he hadn’t been able to detect it. 

He sends a text to Benny letting him know to check on the wives alone. After a moment of deliberation Castiel texts Charlie, asking her if she would be able to come over tomorrow night. Charlie replies first with an affirmative, and it takes Benny a bit longer to reply, also with an affirmative. 

Castiel puts his phone on the wireless charger and then turns towards the stove, staring at the kettle as he leans against the island, wrapping his arms around himself. An indeterminable time later, he hears the front door of his house open and close. Dean’s footsteps are heavy, the sound of his duffel dropping to the floor immediately calming Castiel. A few paces - checking the living room probably - and then Dean is in the kitchen, the scent of pastries and coffee clinging to him as he makes his way into Castiel’s space.

“Cas.” 

Castiel blinks. Dean is in front of him, blocking the view of the kettle he never started. He’s wearing a shirt with flour fingerprints and jeans with a hole in the knee. Castiel lifts his gaze to see Dean’s worried expression, feeling… listless. 

“Dean,” Castiel says. 

Dean hugs him. 

It’s silly, really. They’ve branded each other’s skin with their handprints, have punched and kicked until they couldn’t breathe. They’ve knocked knees and gripped each other with both anger and relief, and yet… this is the first hug they’ve shared. Dean’s arms are strong as they wrap around Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel lets his head naturally fall into the curve of Dean’s neck as his own arms weakly wrap under Dean’s armpits and around his back. Strength leaves him, and Dean pins him to the counter to keep them both upright. Twisting his fingers in Dean’s worn shirt Castiel closes his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath. 

“Lucifer turned Jack into a bomb,” Castiel says, voice muffled, lips brushing against Dean’s slightly sweaty skin. “I don’t know if I can save him.” 

Dean tenses slightly, which causes Castiel to tense - so Dean relaxes as best as he can with the news he’s been given. It’s a feat. But his calmness seeps into Castiel, and his breathing starts to regulate and soon Castiel pulls away from Dean, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed. For good measure he lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes, surprised to find them dry. They stand in silence for a few moments, Castiel staring at Dean’s chest, and when he finally lifts his eyes to Dean’s face, his heart twists at the soft expression he’s wearing. 

“Can’t make tea if you don’t boil the kettle,” Dean says softly. 

Castiel lets out a surprised, wet laugh. “Right.” 

“I got this. Go to the couch,” Dean says. He pulls away from Castiel, taking the warmth with him. “I’ll bring a cup out to you.” 

Castiel doesn’t verbally reply. He follows Dean’s instructions, climbing onto the couch and curling up on his side, wrapping himself in the blanket that Jack had been using earlier. It smells like him; honey shampoo and bergamot incense. Castiel stares at the flames still lit in the fireplace and when Dean comes out he doesn’t sit up, so Dean sets the steaming mug down on the coffee table before he takes a seat on the couch. Castiel scrunches his legs up a bit more to make room but Dean reaches to grab his ankles, allowing his feet to rest on his lap. Dean’s hands are heavy and warm where they rest, heat seeping through Castiel’s sweats and tingling his skin. 

He continues to stare at the fireplace. 

“Sam thought somethin’ was up with the kid,” Dean says. “Couldn’t put his finger on it.” 

“I couldn’t sense it,” Castiel says. He sounds terribly morose, even to his own ears. “I should have been able to sense it.” 

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Cas. You know now.” 

“He should have told me sooner,” Castiel says with a bit more emotion. “All this time we could have been working on finding reversal spell.” 

Dean squeezes Castiel’s left ankle gently. “We had to do the ritual. Y’ain’t much help without your bonded.” 

Castiel sends Dean a slightly narrowed look. “I am able to do research even without magic.” 

Dean sends him a lofty smile. “Yeah, but we all know I make things a hundred times better.”

Castiel doesn’t argue, settling down once more with Dean’s familiar presence swelling in the house. Only the sounds of the flames crackling fill the air for more than ten minutes; Dean’s thumb has started stroking Castiel’s ankle bone idly, the action soothing enough that Castiel, at a few different points, has to blink himself back to awareness. 

“Jack has never kept a secret from me,” Castiel finally says. Admitting that is what makes it so difficult to believe that Jack didn’t tell Castiel - or _anyone_ \- the danger lurking within him.

Dean stays quiet. 

“He has always confided in me. Even with small things. For him to hide such big secret…” Castiel feels anger trying to lick its way back into his conscious. 

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is still calm. “How would _you_ tell your loved ones that you’re a bomb?” 

Castiel understands Dean’s point. “I wouldn’t have turned him away.”

“He don’t know that,” Dean reasons. “He went with Lucifer. Probably thought he’d never be forgiven for that. So he got coerced into bein’ a bomb ‘cause he probably thought he deserved it. Then he got rescued and brought back into your life and home… and had this huge burden on his shoulders suddenly.”

Castiel’s eyes close. Dean has learned so much about Jack’s personality with all the time they’ve spent together, it’s… comforting. Castiel had always thought he had been the only one with Jack’s best interests at heart, but it’s clear that Dean has grown to care for him, as well. 

“We can be mad that he kept it a secret,” Dean continues. “But we can’t blame him.” 

Castiel lets out a breath. “I cannot lose him.”

Dean’s fingers squeeze his ankle again. “You won’t. We’ll get it figured out. Call Sammy over so he can help with research.” 

Swallowing, Castiel nods. “Charlie will come over as well.” 

He can hear the smile in Dean’s voice. “Lotta big brains under one roof- you, Charlie an’ Sam. Should take no time at all to figure somethin’ out.” 

“You, too.” Castiel replies automatically. 

“Huh?” 

Propping up on an elbow, Castiel levels his gaze with Dean’s. “Your big brain, too.” 

Dean flushes, cutting his gaze away. “Uh- sure. I’ll provide refreshments.” 

Castiel frowns. He hates when Dean talks down about himself. But right now he’s too tired to argue, so he settles down again, drawing the blanket tighter around himself. Dean continues to stroke his ankle. After a few moments, Castiel realizes that he is marginally less stressed than he’d been when he called Dean. Closing his eyes, he tries not to press his ankle into Dean’s touch.

“Thank you for coming,” Castiel says quietly. 

Dean doesn’t reply.

He doesn’t need to.

\--

Castiel opens his eyes to the darkness of his bedroom. The blackout curtains keep out any light trying to spill in; his internal clock tells him it’s early, and when he rolls over to look at the clock on his nightstand, he sees it’s just past six. Frowning, he burrows back under his blankets, confused as to why he’s awake. He hadn’t been to bed until after two - he dozed on the couch, surrounded by Dean’s comfort and warmth, and-

Dean.

Castiel sits up. 

Jack is a bomb.

They don’t know when he’ll go off, or where - and Castiel can’t fathom why he hadn’t been detonated the moment he escaped. Surely Lucifer would have a much greater advantage if he wiped out Castiel and his crew early on. Running a hand down his face, Castiel wracks his brain. Under Castiel’s roof is probably the safest place for Jack to be, surrounded by white magic and enchantments that dull Lucifer’s magic swirling inside Jack’s body, but it can’t stop a _bomb_. 

If and when Jack goes off, it doesn’t matter where he is. There will be no stopping it. 

Lucifer has to know that Castiel has found his hunter. It had been the only logical thing left to do when Lucifer went off the rails, and while Lucifer isn’t nearly as smart as Castiel, he’s not a total idiot either. Thinking back to the night of the extraction, Castiel closes his eyes and exhales slowly. He’d sent Dean on the mission as backup, but he didn’t think about the implication of Dean being there in the first place. The bond between Krushnic and Winchester probably lit up like a beacon when Dean was within range of Lucifer. 

There’s no way Lucifer doesn’t know that Castiel has found Dean, now. Whether or not he learned that night or sooner is yet to be known, but it’s enough for Castiel to think that Lucifer’s bomb idea has something to do with wiping out the last of the Winchester bloodline.

Panic seizes his chest again and he tangles briefly in his sheets as he tries to get out of bed quickly. He doesn’t change from his sweatpants and sleep shirt, tucking his feet into slippers and grabbing a hoodie as he opens the door to his bedroom. Standing still, he listens. 

There are muffled voices coming from downstairs. He looks down the hallway and sees both Jack and Dean’s bedroom doors open; letting out a breath, Castiel leaves his doorway to head downstairs as well, pulling on his hoodie as he goes. The scent of coffee hits him first, then the smell of frying (turkey) bacon, and when Castiel finally makes it into the kitchen he feels the panic in his chest loosen slightly.

Jack is seated at the breakfast bar, hair messy and eyes bright. Dean is at the stove cooking, clad in low hanging athletic pants and a black shirt that doesn’t have flour fingerprints all over it. They both look up at the same time and Castiel freezes in the archway, suddenly overcome with too many emotions to name. The domestic picture, seeing the two most important people in his life sharing a space casually and easily, settles deep into his conscious.

It’s almost painful.

This is what Lucifer wants to destroy.

“Mornin’, Cas,” Dean says. He keeps his tone carefully neutral, just on this side of cheery. The timbre of it soothes Castiel’s frayed nerves. “Come have a seat, coffee’s fresh.” 

Shuffling into the kitchen, Castiel takes a seat next to Jack at the island. Jack sends him a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and Castiel feels another line of tension break.

Jack is not the guilty party, here.

“Good morning, Jack,” Castiel says, reaching to put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and give it a reassuring squeeze.

_We can be mad at him, but we can’t blame him._

Dean is right. Until they figure out what they can do, keeping Jack - and everyone else - safe is the priority.

Jack perks up visibly with Castiel’s soft greeting. “Dean is baking croissants!”

Castiel nods. Dean places a cup of coffee on the counter in front of him and turns around before Castiel can shoot him a thankful glance. He picks up the mug and takes a sip, allowing the liquid to settle warmly into every nook and cranny of his being, both physical and mental. 

He decides to fall into the domesticity. They will figure things out soon enough. 

Hopefully sooner than later.

“You don’t have to cook, Dean,” Castiel finds himself saying, even if he doesn’t mean it. He loves when Dean cooks, and this morning the familiarity is something he desperately needs. 

Dean brushes it off. “Nah, we need our strength today and your hippie granola breakfast ain’t gonna cut it.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes, even though there’s a hint of fondness in the action. “If you say so.” 

Jack watches the exchange with a dopey smile on his face. “I am glad you are here, Dean.” 

Dean shoots Jack a curious glance, arching a brow. His gaze slides towards Castiel, who ducks his eyes, suddenly very interested in staring out the french glass doors that lead out to the back porch. Beautiful day, today.

Jack is too perceptive, and more importantly - too honest. Barring the whole ‘I’m a bomb’ incident, that is.

Suspicious, Dean turns around to continue cooking. “Right. Uh, anyway, I texted Sam last night and he said he an’ Gabe’ll be here sometime around ten. They’re bringin’ as many books as they can fit into Sam’s car.” 

“Good,” Castiel finds himself saying, even though he’s only partially paying attention. He picks up his coffee for another sip, turning his attention to Jack. “How are you feeling this morning?” 

It’s not that small talk doesn’t happen between Castiel and Jack. It’s more that Castiel checks in on him as a courtesy - but lately Castiel hasn’t actually asked him how he _is_. It’s been a long time since he and Jack had deep conversation, and Castiel finds himself regretting that mistake. Perhaps they would have learned about this earlier, and would have had more time to prepare--

But that isn’t important. It’s in the past, and Castiel has to accept that these are the cards they were dealt. Besides, if he’d learned that Jack was a magical bomb before he’d told Dean about being a warlock… that wouldn’t have been the best timing. No, Castiel thinks as he waits for Jack to reply. The timing would have never been perfect, but it couldn’t have been better.

Everyone is much more prepared now than they would have been six months ago.

“I am tired,” Jack says. He rubs the back of his neck. “It takes a lot for me to wake up in the mornings.” 

Castiel had assumed Jack would sleep in at every opportunity because he was still young and taking advantage of the rest. Frowning a little, Castiel sets his coffee down. “Do you have trouble sleeping?” 

Jack looks at Castiel, then at Dean’s back, and then shrugs and drops his gaze. “I have… nightmares.” 

Castiel feels for him, he really does. He puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder again and tries to offer a small, reassuring smile, which might look more like a grimace than anything. Jack accepts it for what it is, though. Soon after Dean is putting two heaping plates of breakfast in front of them - breakfast hash and freshly baked croissants - and then they fall into idle chatter as they eat. Dean talks about the cafe and Jack causes a few laughs when he tells a story about Alfie accidentally spilling coffee grounds all over the store when Dean went on a supply run. Castiel stays quiet and listens mostly, doing his best to enjoy the moment and ignore the lingering cloud of doom that seems to always be present over his head, content to be seated between the two as they chat. 

Jack helps Dean clean up. Castiel goes down to the basement to start bringing up books, and on the third trip Dean asks him why he doesn’t “just levitate ‘em up here”, to which Castiel sends him a rather dead look, instead of answering. The grin he gets in return warms him. Eventually the three of them get every book up into the dining room and the table isn’t overflowing, but there isn’t a space big enough to put down a sheet of paper. They each take a seat and grab the book nearest them, with Castiel’s instructions to search for “undetec… not able… spells you cannot sense”, and then fall into an easy quiet.

An hour later there’s a knock at the door.

Dean is the first to slam his book shut and bolt out of his seat, to which Castiel snorts in amusement. When he comes back to the dining room Gabriel and Sam are in tow, each holding a stack of books that they gingerly add to a few stacks on the table. 

“These’ll be the best bet,” Gabriel says, patting the cover of the tome closest to him. “Had to dig a few black magic books out of the archives.” 

Castiel feels a repulsed shudder run through his body, unbidden. “Be sure you take them when you leave. I do not want black magic, even in text, in my home.” 

“Don’t get your garters in a twist Glinda,” Gabriel cajoles softly. He looks around, and then his eyes settle on Jack. “So we got a real Jack-in-the-box, huh? Wonder if he needs to be cranked to be popped.” 

“ _Gabriel_ ,” Castiel hisses, unsurprised at Gabriel’s callous reaction but still managing to be offended by it. 

Jack takes it in stride. “Lucifer will have to cast a blood spell in order to activate the bomb.”

Silence follows that statement.

Sam is frowning deeply. He makes his way to where Jack is sitting and bends at the waist, tall frame hunching over so he can wrap Jack up in a tight hug, which the younger man returns happily. “We’ll get this figured out, Jack.”

“Thank you Sam,” Jack’s reply is slightly muffled where his face is smushed into Sam’s chest. 

“Ok, great chick flick moment guys,” Dean grouses, sitting down in his chair once more. “Get a move on.” 

Sam and Gabriel also find seats, and Castiel marvels at the fact that Gabriel is quiet (and still) enough to do research thoroughly for the next few hours. Time is only punctuated by pages turning, grunts of annoyance, soft sighs of concentration. Castiel gets up to brew a round of coffee and tea, Dean serves the rest of the croissants, and when they all agree to take a break for lunch a collective sigh passes through them. 

“Well kiddo,” Gabriel says, tossing the book in his hands onto one of the stacks now accumulating on the floor, “I think you’re fucked.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Gabriel, do not be so negative.” 

“What?” Gabriel shoots Castiel a dirty look, but is quickly cowed when Sam clears his throat. “Look, we’ve gotten through half of these books and none of them talk about a reversal spell for a human bomb. None of them even mention anything on how to make one in the first place.” 

Dean comes back from the kitchen, expertly balancing a few full plates on his arms, today’s lunch comprised of gourmet sandwiches and homemade potato chips. He sets a plate down in front of everyone and then heads back into the kitchen likely to get his own, Jack following after him to get a water pitcher and glasses. Once the books on the table are arranged into stacks where the occupants can all see each other over them they start on their food, Sam continuing the conversation. 

“Lucifer doesn’t have a bonded, but he’s still a really strong warlock, right?” Sam asks, crunching on a chip. 

Castiel nods. “He is the current head of the Krushnic family. He is the strongest of us all.” 

“He didn’t get to where he is now with smarts,” Gabriel says. 

“Power and intelligence are not always two sides of the same…” Castiel trails off, frowning.

“Coin,” Dean helps, licking mayonnaise off of his fingers.

“Is it possible that he conjured this spell on his own?” Sam takes a deep drink of water. “We already know he uses black magic. What if he sold his soul to the Devil for stronger powers? Or a curse to put on Jack?” 

“Even the Devil himself wouldn’t make a deal with li’l ol’ Lucy,” Gabriel says with an amused laugh. “I asked.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, and then immediately narrow towards Gabriel. “You had conference with the Devil?” 

“Gotta cover all our bases, right?” Gabriel shrugs.

Dean and Sam gape. “You talked to the _Devil_?” Dean blinks rapidly, gaze turning towards Castiel. “Hell is real?”

“As are Heaven and Purgatory,” Castiel answers casually. His attention stays on his brother. “Gabriel, why didn’t you tell me?” 

“It was while you and your boyfriend were on your honeymoon,” Gabriel says around a mouthful of tomato. 

Castiel feels his cheeks heat and hopes it can be blamed on his indignation towards Gabriel. “You should never contact the Devil.” 

“We aren’t pals,” Gabriel says, his tone turning serious. “I called. He answered. I asked.” 

“What did you give him in return?” Castiel’s eyes narrow further. 

Gabriel shifts guiltily.

“Gabe,” Sam speaks, catching his boyfriend’s attention. “You had to make an exchange with the Devil in order to get information, didn’t you?” 

Dean still looks rightly gobsmacked. Jack accidentally spills water down his chin, lightly dabbing his skin and the collar of his shirt with a napkin. 

After a few seconds of Gabriel squirming in his seat, he throws his hands in the air. “I gave him Lucifer, ok?” 

Silence falls over the table.

Dean leans forward, squinting. “You can do that?”

“How does that work?” Sam asks at the same time. 

Castiel clenches his jaw. “You cannot promise the Devil something you cannot give.” 

“Then why did he accept my offer?” Gabriel replies smugly, folding his arms over his chest eyebrow raised.

“Because Lucifer will die,” Jack says plainly. “The Devil himself has Sight. He must know that Lucifer will die in the battle.”

“Even if Lucifer dies, the only one that can offer up his soul is Lucifer himself,” Castiel’s voice is tight, grip on his water glass tight enough to turn his knuckles white. 

“Actually,” Gabriel grins, “whoever sends him downstairs reserves the rights to his soul.”

A few things click in Castiel’s mind. “You mean to say… whoever kills Lucifer will decide what happens to his soul?” 

“Exactly that,” Gabriel pops a chip into his mouth and crunches loudly. “And since the only people in the world who can kill him are all sitting at this table, now we’re all in on the plan, and we can send Lucy packing.” 

Castiel’s brow furrows as he looks at his plate. He is well aware of the fact they need to take down Lucifer and go to any lengths necessary to stop him, but until this very moment, he hasn’t thought about actually _killing_ his brother. Castiel has always been uncomfortable with bringing physical harm to anyone, which is why the whole mafia front never sat well with him in the first place and he changed things the moment he could. 

Dean and Benny pick up all of the violence that Castiel desperately tries to avoid, unaware that they’re his muscle because Castiel just simply can’t do it himself.

“I can see your bleeding heart from here, baby bro,” Gabriel says.

Castiel scowls. “It would be so easy for you to kill your brother?” 

Now Gabriel’s eyes narrow. “That man isn’t my _brother_. He’s a monster.”

“Cas,” Dean speaks up, able to sense the turmoil spinning around in Castiel’s heart and mind. Castiel glances up to meet his gaze across the table. Dean’s eyes are soft and full of sympathy. “It’s either Jack or Lucifer.”

Putting it all down to this choice is too black and white for Castiel. He stands up from the table, chair scooting back noisily. He grabs the pitcher to refill his glass and then silently walks away from the table, through the kitchen towards the back patio. Outside is quiet, peaceful, beautiful. The flowers are fresh, the breeze is soft, and Castiel leans against the porch railing as he stares out at the lush green treeline. 

He senses Dean before he physically feels him standing at his elbow. 

“Until now, I hadn’t thought about actually killing Lucifer,” Castiel admits. 

“I know,” Dean says. Of course he knows. 

Castiel sets his glass on the rail and lifts his hand to push his hair back from his forehead, eyes closing. “I knew my brother was twisted, but I didn’t know he would go to such lengths. I knew his goal was to destroy humanity but… if I know him, his entire plan revolves around Jack being his weapon.” His jaw clenches. “But it cannot be that simple, can it? Could saving Jack really be all we need to do to win?” 

“Probably not,” Dean says. Castiel glances over to see Dean with his hands in the pockets of his sweats, green eyes more verdant than Castiel’s prettily manicured lawn as he looks over the acreage. “But this is where we gotta start.”

Nodding slowly, Castiel lets out a breath. He picks up his water and takes a long drink, and when he pulls his glass away he licks his lips. “We must find a counterspell. If we can’t…” he trails off.

“If you can’t find one,” Dean’s words are slow and thoughtful. “Can’t you just… make one?” 

That catches Castiel’s attention. “What?” he turns towards Dean.

Dean gets a little shy as he rubs the back of his neck. “I mean- he’s usin’ black magic but he didn’t get help from the Devil, which means it’s a spell that _can_ be crafted. And if it’s a spell that can be crafted, that means there’s a counterspell. If it don’t exist in a textbook anywhere… why can’t we just make our own counterspell?” 

Castiel blinks rapidly. 

It’s too simple.

It’s so _simple_. 

“‘Cause Lucifer probably just made up his own spell, right? Since he’s so strong.” Dean lifts a hand to scratch idly at the stubble on his jaw, gaze turning thoughtful. “Just gotta figure out what he did by examining the wires. Diffuse the bomb, y’know? Find the red wire and clip it. I mean- Jack’s a person, not a bomb, and it’s magic, not wires, but uh. If we can catch traces of the magic and go from there-”

Dean’s words get cut off when Castiel reaches out and grabs him by the shoulders, yanking him towards him. He presses a firm kiss to Dean’s temple, hugs the hunter tightly to his chest, and then almost knocks over his glass when he picks it up so he can turn on heel and head inside. 

“It’s so _simple_ ,” Castiel says, catching the attention of everyone in the dining room. 

Dean follows, a bit dazed. 

“What’s simple?” Gabriel asks, wary.

“We cannot find a reversal spell because the spell itself doesn’t exist in text,” Castiel explains, his accent tripping his tongue a few times. “We can _find_ the spell- _inside_ Jack. We can find the wires and clip them.”

Gabriel looks at Castiel like he’s grown two heads. “Like- actual bomb diffusing?” 

Castiel smacks himself in the forehead, his brain already kicking into overdrive as he starts going through his mental catalogue. He spins in place and likely looks like a madman as he reaches to shake Gabriel by the shoulders, a slightly manic smile on his features. He feels light. Relieved. _Optimistic_. “We can perform a cleanse of his aura- hit reset button and pick apart any foreign magic inside of his body.”

Gabriel finally starts to catch on. “Holy shit. Holy shit- you’re right.” He stands up. “What the hell, why didn’t we think of this earlier? Cassie, you genius!”

Castiel feels pride swell in his chest as he shakes his head, turning his excited gaze towards Dean. “I didn’t think of it.” 

All eyes are on Dean, who’s hovering in the archway and pointedly looking anywhere but at everyone else. His hands are in the pockets of his sweats and his cheeks are flushed and he looks a little rumpled, still a bit dazed, and Gabriel hoots as he gets out his chair and bounds towards Dean to punch him in the chest. Dean lets out an ‘oof!’ of surprise and then looks massively uncomfortable when Gabriel brings him in for a hug and a noogie. 

“I knew you were more than a pretty face!”

Sam looks rightfully proud. “Dean’s always been a great problem solver.”

“He thinks quickly on his feet,” Castiel agrees.

“Thank you, Dean,” Jack says. 

Dean’s face turns so red it looks like he might pop, so when he disentangles himself from Gabriel and awkwardly flees the scene Castiel lets him. Gabriel and Sam are sniggering lightheartedly and Castiel feels the knot in his chest loosening for the first time in a while, and he subconsciously lifts up a hand to rub over his sternum idly.

Elsewhere in the house, he knows Dean does the same.

\--*--

“Diffuse the bomb,” Sam says, dropping into the space next to Dean on the couch with the grace of a giraffe. “Brilliant.” 

Dean licks his lips and lifts his beer to his lips for a drink. “Not really. All bombs can be diffused. Just gotta find the right wires.” 

“You’ve always been good at improvising,” Sam says, taking a drink of his own beer. The praise isn’t strange coming from Sam, but the way he says it has Dean glancing over at him curiously. “I mean- studying texts and research has always come easy to me. I used to think everything had to be structured and written out flawlessly and followed to the T.”

“Must suck being such a nerd,” Dean teases, kindness in his voice even though he’s rolling his eyes. 

Sam carries on. “You’ve never been good at researching for solutions to your problems.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up before he sends Sam an offended look. “Hey-”

Sam laughs and lifts a hand. “But Dean, it _works_ for you. You take the bull by the horns and beat it into submission. You’ve always been able to think on your feet. Today…” Sam rotates his beer bottle on his thigh slowly. “Today you _thought_ of a solution and you gave everyone hope.” 

Dean settles down again, eyes on the fireplace. It isn’t lit, but his eyes gravitate there anyway. “Jack’s a good kid. He doesn’t deserve this.” 

“We haven’t even gone to war yet,” Sam says, “but sometimes it feels like we’re already fighting a losing battle. Sometimes Gabriel gets in these moods…” he runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “And I just know he’s thinking about Lucifer and having to fight him.”

“Yeah,” Dean thinks about last night and how Castiel had looked when Dean came into the kitchen with enough commotion to wake the dead. Castiel had barely reacted until Dean had gotten physically into his space. News of Jack being in danger had really spooked him. “It’s hard to really get a pin on this stuff, y’know? War, battle- we’ve got a fight to prepare for but don’t know when it’s gonna happen, or where. Lucifer’s got some sort of monster army and there’s only- shit.” Dean counts on one hand. “Seven of us.” 

“Can you imagine Gabriel in a fist fight?” Sam asks, his tone turning wry. 

Dean’s grinning before he can stop himself. “No. What even are you guys training for?”

“Heavy spell casting,” Sam says. He drains his beer. “Gabriel explained it like this: you and Cas will be the brawns, we’ll be the brains.”

“Hardly seems fair,” Dean grumbles.

“Castiel is stronger than Gabriel in every way,” Sam says with a shrug. “And you’re stronger than me, too. So it makes sense that we would provide you two with backup instead of being directly in the fray.”

Dean frowns a little. “You’re strong, Sammy.” 

Sam sends Dean an amused smile. “Dean, today you proved that you’re way better at this than I am. I’ve been studying for months. You barely read three books and were able to come up with a solution to Jack’s problem twelve hours after learning about it.” 

Swallowing thickly, Dean shrugs and picks at the label of his beer. “I guess.” 

Seemingly satisfied that Dean isn’t fighting off the compliment, Sam pats Dean’s knee and stands up. “Need a refill?” 

Dean nods and holds up his empty bottle. Sam leaves the living room and Dean rubs his hands over his face tiredly, slouching into the couch cushions. There’s a knock at the front door and Jack leaps down the steps to answer it, excitedly greeting Charlie. Dean smiles to himself and stands up so he can greet her as well; he’s only seen her a handful of times but she’s already managed to sneak into his heart. 

“‘Sup bitches?” Charlie hugs Jack, then Dean. 

“Charlie,” Castiel calls out from the kitchen. “Thank you for coming. I know tonight is game night.” 

“You can always make it up to me by coming next week,” Charlie says cheerily. 

Castiel sends her a reserved smile. “I’ll think about it.” 

Charlie seems to be satisfied with that. She hauls her rolling suitcase into the living room and sets up residence on the couch, starting to unpack all of her tech. Sam reappears with two new beers, handing Dean’s to him before wandering over to the couch to sit next to Charlie and start chatting about something nerdy, no doubt. Jack joins them and Charlie launches into an explanation on something or other, hands flailing excitedly, and for a moment Castiel and Dean stand next to each other in the foyer, watching the scene quietly. 

“So,” Dean slides his free hand into the pocket of his sweats. “Heaven and Hell, huh?” 

“And Purgatory,” Castiel hums. 

“So, God…?” 

“Very real,” Castiel says. After a moment’s consideration: “Not who you think, at all.” 

“Man,” Dean laughs a little. “Will wonders ever cease.” 

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice softens. “Thank you.” 

Dean tilts his head slightly so he can regard Castiel’s profile. The man is watching the trio on the couch - Gabriel joins them and they all make some sort of noisy complaint, probably in response to something ridiculous he said - a soft smile on his face and his features relaxed. Dean thinks about the haunted look in Castiel’s eyes from last night, the way he allowed Dean to hold him in a moment of weakness; he thinks of the vine ritual, when Castiel had spoken of Jack like a son.

_I need you, Dean._

The faintest of smiles quirks the corners of Dean’s mouth as words Castiel has said in the past echo in his mind. He gently bumps Castiel’s shoulder with his own, causing the other man to meet his gaze curiously. 

Dean means it with his entire being when he says, “Anything you need, Cas. I got you.” 

Castiel ducks his head with his smile.

It takes a moment for Dean to notice, but the room is suddenly very quiet. Glancing up, nervous that they have an audience, Dean is surprised to see everyone focused on the screen of Charlie’s laptop, expressions a mixture of confusion and mild horror.

“Guys?” Dean raises his voice a bit so they can hear him. “Charlie?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen when she replies quietly, “There’s been an explosion.” 

Dean’s confusion multiplies. “Where?” 

Sam looks up at Dean, the expression on his features causing Dean’s gut to drop to his shoes. Castiel tenses, sensing Dean’s oncoming distress. 

“Your cafe.”


	15. Brick & Mortor

Sam drives the Impala. 

Dean is in the passenger seat trying to call Kevin and Alfie and the new girl, Mikayla, getting more frustrated with every unanswered call. Castiel and Gabriel are in the backseat, Jack and Charlie in Charlie’s car, and traffic shouldn’t be this bad on a Wednesday morning but Dean feels like getting out of the car and running to try and get to the cafe quicker. The footage that Charlie had seen was from a cell phone camera, shaky and unstable and blurry, and Dean had immediately felt nauseous when he saw half of the city block decimated. 

The news is calling it a terrorist attack, but they all know better. 

Police barricades prevent them from getting any closer than a mile out with their vehicle. Dean wastes no time in getting out of his car, barely even waiting for Sam to put it into park before throwing open the door and marching towards a police officer, adrenaline and fear crashing through his veins violently.

“Sir, this is a closed zone-” 

“My fucking cafe just got blown up,” Dean has to yell to be heard over the sirens, but it also feels good to yell in general. “I can’t get ahold of my employees.”

The officer raises a hand, “Sir, search and rescue are in the area and the paramedics are working on survivors.”

“Survivors,” Dean rocks back on his heels, stomach swooping. Where there are ‘survivors’, there are also dead bodies. Dean’s seen enough movies and watched enough dramatic news coverage to know that. An ugly, acidic taste starts crawling up his throat, his eyes blurring a bit. “I gotta- I gotta get in there, Kevin-”

“Dean,” Castiel’s hand on his shoulder floods him with cold water. Dean takes a shuddery breath as Castiel addresses the officer, a little mad that Castiel is using his mojo to calm him, but also thankful that he can now take a full, deep breath. “You will let us pass.” 

Dean looks up in time to see the officer’s eyes glow a faint blue before the uniformed man nods, stepping aside to give them access to the open part of the barrier. Breathing heavily, Dean strides forward, the sound of footsteps behind him letting him know Gabriel and Sam are close behind. The neighborhood is unrecognizable; pipes are burst, dust is still blowing in the wind, and buildings that didn’t get destroyed completely have shattered windows and doors hanging off the hinges. Wind whips around them and Dean does his best to get his emotions in check - he’ll be useless if he’s panicked. 

The block his cafe is situated on is… well, gone. It’s easy to see that the center of the blast originated at the cafe itself, brick and mortar scattered around like breadcrumbs. The smell of smoke and char is thick in the air, and Dean tries not to pay attention to the underlying iron tang on the breeze. There are firefighters moving rubble by hand and in the distance a backhoe is ambling towards the destruction. Small fires are being put out with hoses and Dean moves his gaze towards the ambulances, trying to find familiar faces among the shaken civilians being wrapped in blankets and checked for injuries. 

“Dean!”

Kevin’s voice grips Dean’s heart like a vise, and he follows the call blindly. None of the first responders look twice at Dean and he’s thankful for it, because he can’t handle getting kicked out now. The closer he gets to the ambulance where Kevin’s voice came from is, he notices, right in front of the - now obliterated - cafe. The only reason Dean knows that destroyed building is his in the foreign hellscape of the blast zone is because part of the sidewalk survived, a chalk drawing of a sun left behind from an artistic child that was left alone for a few minutes too long yesterday morning. It’s distorted by dust and blood. Dean pointedly doesn’t look towards the cafe, instead moving straight towards Kevin who is stiffly getting off of the back of the ambulance.

“Kev,” Dean nearly chokes on his name. Before Kevin’s feet are even fully on the ground Dean is scooping him up into a tight hug, trying to be careful of any injuries but also needing to confirm that Kevin is, indeed, alive. He pulls back and Kevin looks a little dazed - there’s mud and dirt caked onto his skin, dust in his hair, his clothes torn in a few places. “Where are Alfie and Mik?” 

“I don’t know,” Kevin says, his voice raspy. He clears it when Dean’s face turns panicked, “They went on a supply run and I didn’t see them come back before…” he trails off. “I didn’t see them in any ambulances.”

Dean cups Kevin’s face, looking him over and pushing him gently to arm’s length so he can look over him. “You- are you ok? How did you get out?” 

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up from Kevin’s throat. “I don’t know. I was right in front of the pastry case, it should have- there was so much broken glass, I don’t-”

Dean brings Kevin into his embrace to quiet him down, pushing images of a dead Kevin shredded to pieces with shards of glass speckling him like a Pollock painting far from his mind. “It’s fine. You’re ok. We’re gonna find Alfie and Mik.” 

Kevin nods into Dean’s shoulder, and when they pull apart Kevin takes in a shuddery breath. “I don’t have my phone on me. It was in my coat pocket. I- Can you call my mom?” 

Dean pulls his phone out of his own pocket and pushes it into Kevin’s hands. “Call whoever you gotta, kid. I’ll be right back.” 

When he turns around he nearly runs into Castiel, who has a deep frown on his features. Gabriel and Sam are helping firefighters pick through the rubble of the cafe, and Dean decides that he should also help try to find survivors as well - but Castiel’s fingers on his wrist keep him from going anywhere, Dean trying to keep his patience. 

“We gotta find Alfie and Mikayla,” Dean grits out. 

Castiel nods towards Kevin, eyes focused to a nearly scary degree. “There’s traces of magic flowing through him.”

“What?” That derails Dean a bit as he turns to look at Kevin, who is talking on the phone in hushed tones. Squinting, like that would be able to help him see any magic, Dean frowns. “Why?”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Castiel says. “He is barely hurt. He should be dead, or at least have more injuries.” 

Dean’s gaze scans the area. “You think Lucifer...?” 

“The magic on Kevin is faint, but it is not Lucifer’s,” Castiel says. He turns his attention towards Dean. “I do not know every warlock and witch in the city, but someone else saved Kevin.” His eyes slide towards where Sam and Gabriel are. “Lucifer is behind this attack, though. It smells like him.” 

Dean runs both hands down his face, then shakes them out. The numbness in his brain is starting to seep into his limbs. “I gotta help.” He walks towards the wreckage, climbing over some larger pieces of structure and wall. Some of the mess has been cleared away, and there’s a small crater in the center of what used to be where tables and chairs once decorated the cozy space of the cafe. The tile around the gaping hole is cracked and frayed and Dean feels his heart break, piece by piece, as he catches sight of broken tables and chairs, leaves from the hanging plants blowing in the breeze. He takes a few numb steps forward and sees where the pastry case was; there’s so much glass, no one would have survived if they were standing next to it. There are various pastries and desserts scattered around, the cards that didn’t dissolve in flames charred around the edges and bent to all hell. 

For the scene of a massacre, there isn’t a lot of blood around.

Castiel must have placed some sort of spell on the first responders, because no one argues that civilians are suddenly helping clear rubble and search for survivors. For a while Dean is optimistic that there was no one inside the cafe when the blast happened, but as they make their way into the back storage area where food was prepped and dishes were washed, Dean feels his heart sink. It’s taken a few hours to clear out the lobby area enough to be able to get into the back, and the nausea replaces the adrenaline when Dean sees the dark crimson stains on the broken floor and the fallen roof. 

One hand is visible underneath a pile of rebar and cement, and Dean recognizes the kitty whisker tattoo on the inside of a bent and broken forefinger. Tears spring in Dean’s eyes and he opens his mouth to call out, to get more help to move the debris, but no noise comes out. He grabs a pole of rebar, yanking on it to move the cement slab it’s attached to, barely strong enough to get it to move. He uses his bodyweight to get it to tip until gravity can do the rest of the work, the concrete falling to the floor in a broken heap. The pieces underneath are much smaller and more manageable and Dean starts hauling them up - and when he can finally get to Mikayla he’s unable to control his breathing, nearly feeling like he’s going to hyperventilate. 

Castiel is at his side in the blink of an eye, calling out towards the first responders. He helps Dean to his feet - when did he kneel? - and drags him away when the firefighters come in to remove the rest of the rubble and take Mikayla’s body away from the scene. Dean’s eyes are looking around, trying to see if Alfie is somewhere among the ruins, too, but Castiel is hauling him _away_ from the cafe and Dean struggles against him, yelling but not quite sure what words are leaving his mouth. His brain is fried, his heart feels like it’s going to explode, and his whole body is trembling, knees too weak to keep himself upright. 

Out in the street, surrounded by concrete and brick and shattered glass and blood, Dean collapses to his knees. Mikayla died because of _Dean_. This whole neighborhood got destroyed because Dean set up shop here, because Dean has a huge target on his back. Who knows how many people died? How many lives he’s destroyed? He’d been so stupid to think that Lucifer wouldn’t do something like this. 

The weight and gravity of everything settles deep into his bones. 

Lucifer hadn’t been able to find Sam or Dean thanks to the brands on their ribs, but that doesn’t mean he can’t kill them in other ways. 

Dean’s entire livelihood, gone in the blink of an eye. The business he built from the ground up, the career that he beat all odds to succeed in. 

Mikayla is dead.

Alfie is missing.

“Dean!”

Castiel’s voice sounds like it’s coming through water, but it’s loud enough that Dean looks up at the other man. They’re both on the ground, Dean cradled in Castiel’s arms, and anger starts to cut through the hysteria. None of this would have happened if Dean was living a regular life - if he hadn’t been born into the Winchester line. People wouldn’t be hurt, people wouldn’t be _dead_ if Dean was just a normal fucking person. The consequences of their situation hadn’t really sunk in until now. Dean’s not stupid, he knows they’re heading into war, but this-

This is real. 

This isn’t just some theoretical event that’s going to happen in the future at some time or another. This isn’t playing soldier, this isn’t research, this isn’t hypothesizing what-if scenarios.

This is fucking _real_ , and people are dead. 

Dean shoves at Castiel, all of his rage boiling up inside and spilling over. “Fuck off, Cas!” 

Castiel is solid and barely budges, rooted so firmly Dean’s shove actually pushes himself back and out of Castiel’s arms. Castiel looks surprised, hurt flashing in those blue eyes, but Dean ignores it as he turns onto his hands and knees, gritting his teeth when a few glass shards dig into his palms as he hauls himself up onto his feet. Castiel stands as well, and when he reaches out Dean knocks his hand away, breathing hard to try and keep his anger in check.

It’s not working. 

“My cafe is _gone_!” Dean yells. “Mikayla is dead, Alfie is missing, the whole fucking neighborhood is destroyed because _your_ brother is a fucking psychopath!” He jabs his finger into Castiel’s chest, glaring heatedly at the slightly shorter man. “People are _dead_ because of your fucking squabble-”

Castiel’s eyes narrow in reply as he cuts Dean off, “This is _war_ , Dean, people are going to die.” 

“My fucking life is _ruined_ because of you!” Dean yells over him. Castiel falls quiet, eyes wide. Dean continues, ignoring the pang behind his sternum, finger digging into Castiel’s chest again. “This war is _bullshit_!”

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but Dean cuts him off. 

“When all this is over, I’m fucking done. I’m out, Cas. We’re gonna gank Lucifer, and then we are _done_.” There’s an edge to his voice that he didn’t know he could make, and it visibly cuts through Castiel like a knife. Dean gives the warlock’s shoulder one last shove for good measure, and then brushes by him to stalk towards where Sam and Gabriel are meeting with Charlie and Jack. He’s buzzing with nerves and anger and wants to break something really fucking bad, but when he glances around and sees everything is already broken around him, his anger turns into frustration. 

Castiel doesn’t rejoin them. 

An hour later Alfie is recovered in one of the buildings that didn’t fully collapse, sporting a broken leg and holding a crinkled daily supply list. Dean hugs him so tight Alfie says he thinks he breaks another rib, and then he’s carrying Alfie to where Kevin is still sitting on the back of an ambulance. After the two hug it out Dean exhales shakily, reaching up to wipe some grime off of his own cheek. Blood has mixed with dust and dirt, making a thick, gritty paste that Dean knows he’ll be washing off for weeks.

“You two gotta go to the hospital,” Dean says. 

“Did you find Mik?” Kevin asks. 

Dean drops his gaze. He doesn’t know what to say, and even if he did, he doesn’t know if he has the guts to actually say it out loud. His silence says everything, though, and both Alfie and Kevin look shellshocked. Dean reaches out to where they’re sitting on the bumper of the ambulance, wrapping an arm around each of them and bringing them into his embrace. They cling tightly to him and Dean feels a tiny part of him break when Alfie wails into his neck; he tangles his fingers in Alfie’s dusty, stiff hair, letting him cry it out. Kevin is much quieter, but Dean can feel the dampness soaking into his shirt. The sun is starting to set, chills running through him as it disappears. A paramedic finally comes around to corral the boys, sending Dean a pitying glance as Alfie unglues himself from Dean’s side so he can be put up on a proper gurney. Dean helps Kevin up into the ambulance and then takes a step back, watching the paramedic put an IV drip in Alfie’s arm, and then gives Kevin a nod right before the doors are shut and the ambulance rolls away, another one following it filled with a few injured, but alive patrons.

“Charlie says she’ll be able to pull surveillance footage from the businesses in the area.” Sam’s voice startles Dean slightly. He looks apologetic when Dean’s shoulders scrunch up as he faces him. “We’ll be able to see if someone came in to do the bombing and maybe even be able to see who saved Kevin.” 

Dean nods, hearing Sam’s words and only faintly registering them. “Where’s Cas?” 

“He and Gabe left,” Sam says. “Charlie and Jack, too. They’re going back to Cas’s to check things out.”

Dean nods again, feeling exhaustion sweeping through him. His gaze travels around the area, his heart squeezing with sadness and pain, his arms coming up to wrap around himself in a sorry excuse for the hug he suddenly so desperately needs. “Let’s go. The police are gonna be goin’ to our place any time now to tell us. Cas mojo’d our way in here, we’re practically invisible.” 

“Right,” Sam says. As they turn to walk back towards where Dean’s car is parked, Sam hesitantly touches Dean’s elbow. “Are you going to be ok?” 

Dean shrugs off the touch. “No. But we got shit to do and we’ve done all we can here.”

The drive to their townhouse is quiet. Sam gets a call on his cell phone and Dean belatedly realizes that he’d left his phone with Kevin. Kid needs it more than he does, and the authorities will probably call Sam when they can’t get ahold of Dean, anyway. Sam gets told that _Uncle Bobby’s Books_ is fine, but they need to speak to Dean. Dean’s parking in the driveway when he takes Sam’s phone and holds it up to his ear, not really listening to what the officer is saying.

He already knows everything.

The officer says Dean should call his insurance provider immediately, that he’ll need to answer some questions for the police report, all of which Dean acknowledges, and then the call ends. No emotion, no sympathies. Just black and white, sign on this dotted line. He gets inside, numbness starts to take over and Dean doesn’t really remember getting into the shower but when he comes to himself he’s curled up on the floor, hot water beating down on him, dirt and grime and blood turning the water a murky color before it drains. 

Letting out a shuddery breath, Dean draws his knees tighter to his chest, arms wrapped around them as he presses his forehead against them. Eyes closed, he tries to block out the images nearly seared into his brain. Mikayla’s crushed body, Alfie’s broken leg, Kevin’s scared eyes, Castiel’s-

Castiel. 

Dean basically broke up with him today, if that could be considered a thing. In all the chaos, the frayed emotions and the panic… Dean’s heart squeezes unpleasantly. Castiel had looked shell shocked, had been stunned into silence, and the hurt in his eyes, which Dean had originally ignored, now flares brightly at him. Dean had been so angry - is _still_ so angry - about the circumstances. 

The reality of the situation is a hard thing to swallow, and Dean has never been good at letting his emotions out in a healthy manner. Especially under duress. 

He knows it’s not Castiel’s fault that all of this is happening. Technically, if anyone were to point fingers, it’d be John’s fault for saying no to Lucifer. And then of course it’s Lucifer’s fault for being a power hungry asshole, so they’re both to blame. Castiel is doing his best to right the situation with the resources he has available, which happens to be Dean and their bond. 

The bond.

Dean uncurls and leans back against the shower wall, rubbing his sternum idly. There’s a dull ache there and he tips his head back, breathing slowly, lukewarm water pelting his skin to the point of discomfort. 

If they manage to defeat Lucifer… 

Castiel had asked what Dean would do after, if they win the war. Dean hadn’t really answered the question, because he hadn’t really been sure. That was when he had a business to run and employees to take care of, so he supposes that he just assumed he’d continue on working until he could retire. Now that that isn’t an option, Dean has no idea what he’ll do. He feels… lost, and he hasn’t felt like this since he got the news of his father’s death. 

He’s directionless. 

He’s over the fuckin’ hill, over forty damn years old, and has no idea what his future is going to be like. 

If he even survives. If today showed him anything, it’s that life can be snuffed out in an instant. He’s not stupid. He knows that this war with Lucifer could end up with more than just Lucifer dying. Anyone could die. Everyone could die. 

Lucifer could win.

That fear grips him again. He coughs in surprise when his throat and chest seize up and at this point it’s just dangerous to stay in the shower so he picks himself up and turns off the spray, grabbing a towel as he steps out and dries himself off. He pulls on a pair of boxers and moves to his bedroom, lying down on the bed still slightly damp and well aware of the fact his pillow will be cold once the dampness cools, but uncaring. 

Once he’s horizontal the stress of the day morphs into exhaustion, and Dean falls into a deep sleep, bone-tired and dismal.

\--*--

“ _What_.” Castiel growls after ten minutes everyone sharing worried glances with each other around the dining room table. The books have all been cleared and in their place is three laptops, half a dozen notebooks, and a box of pizza. 

At Castiel’s gutteral noise everyone tenses; Charlie drops her eyes back to her screen, Gabriel turns his gaze up towards the ceiling, and Jack braces himself. 

“You and Dean had a fight,” Jack says.

“I don’t see how that is relevant right now,” Castiel says, returning his eyes to the laptop in front of him. He’s been scouring the security footage from the post office cameras for two hours. 

“You’re uh, kinda tense,” Gabriel says.

Castiel shoots him a dirty look. 

“Maybe you should go to sleep,” Jack continues.

“I’m fine,” Castiel turns his glare towards Jack, who is relatively unfazed. 

“Then perhaps you should call Dean?” Jack suggests.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Castiel snaps.

“We should probably also be focusing on the trace of magic that was left behind in Kevin,” Charlie says, voice of reason and professional subject changer. 

Castiel stands up from the table, slamming his laptop closed. He can pray in the basement for Sight, since he can’t seem to be any other sort of useful. “Fine.” He turns on heel and at the last minute decides to detour his journey to instead walk out onto the back porch, the cool August night a balm over his frayed nerves. He sits on the porch swing and now that he’s away from prying eyes, allows himself to slump and bury his face in his hands.

Dean, rightfully, wants nothing to do with Castiel once the war is over. He should have seen that coming. While Dean had been ready to go up in arms to help save the world, he had also made it very clear that he’s doing it because he has the bigger picture in mind. Always righteous, always ready to help everyone other than himself. Castiel isn’t so deluded to think that he and Dean have become best friends over the past year, not when their start had been so rocky in the first place. The bonding ritual united them in spirit and soul, but is simply a glorified band-aid for Dean’s general dislike of Castiel.

Dean is playing nice because he knows he has to in order to do what needs to be done. 

Castiel lets out a wounded noise, the sound muffled by his palms. The air around him shifts and some warmth curls into his ribs; he drops his hands to see Benny on the stairs in front of him, the vampire’s eyes soft and lips slightly downturned, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light. 

“Hey boss,” he says softly. 

“Benny,” Castiel greets. His voice is a croak. 

Benny ambles up the rest of the steps and takes a seat next to Castiel on the swing, blessedly silent and offering comfort in the least intrusive way. Castiel absorbs his warmth, his calmness, and after about ten minutes, Castiel finally speaks.

“Dean hates me.” 

Benny hums in reply, shifting to straighten his legs out and use his heels to start idly rocking the swing. “A whole neighborhood got blown up and you’re more cut up about the fact you guys had a spat?” 

“He hasn’t been angry with me in a long time,” Castiel says with a sigh. “I thought we had moved past animosity.” 

“Boss,” Benny sounds terribly diplomatic. “The thing you gotta know about Dean is that he’s shit at talking about how he feels.”

“I’ve gathered,” Castiel mumbles.

“He gets overwhelmed easily but never wants to seem weak,” Benny continues. “‘Specially in front of you.” 

That makes Castiel frown. “Why me?” 

Benny shrugs. “He’s always been different around you.” 

Castiel chews his lip and frowns down at his lap. “You two are… very close.” 

“Mmm,” Benny hums in agreement.

Castiel swallows the lump in his throat. “Are you… have you…” he trails off, and it takes Benny a moment to realize what he’s asking - and Castiel feels slightly miffed when Benny snorts in amusement. 

“Dean’s like a true brother to me,” Benny says. “I love him only like that.” 

A rueful smile curls Castiel’s lips. “Of course.” 

Another silence settles over them. After a few minutes Benny shifts, settling more comfortably on the cushions. “Dean’ll come around, boss. Today… he lost a lot all at once. Give him time to grieve.” 

Castiel feels like all he gives Dean is time. He’s greedy for more - greedy to take more and give more. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows he doesn’t have to. Benny has always been able to understand Castiel in a way no one else ever could. Drumming his fingers idly over his thighs, Castiel slants his gaze towards Benny. “Were you at _’67 In Heaven_ today?” 

Benny turns a confused frown towards Castiel. “I was visiting the wives today.” 

“Ah,” Castiel remembers. He turns his gaze down towards his lap, frowning. “Kevin was at the center of the blast but survived. I could sense magic leftover in his system and I… need to know who saved him.”

“Good samaritan?” Benny hazards. 

Castiel shakes his head. “You know every other witch and warlock in the city is keeping clear of us. They would have been able to sense Lucifer’s magic at the cafe and would not have stayed to find out what was going to happen.” 

“Well someone did,” Benny says simply. “Security footage doesn’t show anything?” 

Castiel lifts a hand to run through his hair. “No. We initially went back thirty-six hours, but there’s nothing suspicious. This was either planned far in advance, or a decision made so last minute there would be no evidence of preparation. Lucifer has a short fuse.” 

“Blowin’ up a hunter’s business is a bit more than a split second decision,” Benny points out. “Lucifer doesn’t know where Dean lives, but he knows where he works.”

“If Lucifer really wanted to cause damage, then he would have waited for Dean to actually be there before blowing it up,” Castiel says with a frown.

Benny is quiet for a moment, before he says, “Boss… he’s done more damage than if Dean’d been there and died.”

Castiel absorbs those words. If Dean would have died today, then that would have been it. There would be no chance of defeating Lucifer, Castiel would die trying to fight him, and Lucifer would win. Instead of killing Dean, though, Lucifer has blown up the last sense of normalcy Dean had as a human. He shattered his hopes and dreams, his routine, he hurt people he loved. He caused Dean to get angry with Castiel and leave him, he put a rift in their relationship, and suddenly it clicks. 

Lucifer hadn’t wanted to kill Dean.

He had wanted to weaken their bond.

And it had worked. 

Castiel stands up. “I need to go to Dean.” 

Benny stands up as well, “I’ll drive you.” 

They go into the house, Benny heading into the dining room to see if he can help for a few minutes. Castiel heads up the stairs and moves into his bedroom, the calming scent of patchouli and lavender soothing his nerves as he starts changing. He’s still wearing the lounge clothes he’d been in before they went to the blast site, the material dusty and slightly stiff from sweat. He hasn’t showered but he’s not filthy, so he changes into a pair of jeans and a long sleeved tee. When he comes down the stairs everyone is packing up and he frowns slightly, confused. 

“Where are you going?”

“My place,” Charlie says. “I need all my tech to do this work. Plus I have that roster of all the registered magic users on the East coast but it’s in one of those ancient books you keep insisting we keep records in instead of, you know, a freaking text document on a private server.” 

“Their magic signatures are stamped into the pages,” Gabriel says, but his tone of voice says he wishes they could make it all digital. “We’ll compare notes to that Kevin kid and see if we can figure out who saved him.” 

Castiel nods a little dumbly. When Jack stands up Castiel blinks in surprise. “You are going?”

Jack nods and walks over to Castiel to give him a short but strong hug. “You should meditate and pray.”

Castiel’s jaw is slightly slack. Everyone around him gathers what they need and say a few parting words, and then Castiel and Benny are alone in the dining room, Castiel staring at the empty space. 

“Well,” Benny checks his watch, “it’s close to three. Maybe you should catch a bit of shut eye before goin’ over to Dean’s place. He’s probably asleep.”

“ _Da_ ,” Castiel says idly, the sound of his voice startling himself. He clears his throat. “I should wait.” 

Benny’s hand is warm and big on Castiel’s shoulder as he gives him a reassuring squeeze. “Give Dean a call in the morning.”

“You are going, too?” Castiel says, surprise in his voice as he turns towards Benny.

Benny sends him a small grin. “Think we could all use some rest.”

“You don’t sleep at night,” Castiel points out, if not a bit petulantly. Everyone is going to leave him alone, when the last thing he wants right now is solitude. 

“I didn’t sleep yesterday,” Benny reminds him of the fact he had visited every single wife’s house in one day. He must be exhausted. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“You could sleep on the couch,” Castiel invites weakly.

“I think you should take Jack up on his suggestion,” Benny says amiably, softly. “You’re a little weak. Have some sleep and then rejuvenate yourself a bit.” He pulls away, heading to the front door. “And have some meat for breakfast, skip the granola. You’ll feel better.” 

The front door closes and Castiel is alone in his home, suddenly aware of how… big and empty it is. He goes into the kitchen to get a glass of water and then heads back upstairs to his bedroom. As he climbs into his bed amongst the nest of pillows and blankets, he feels that dull throb behind his sternum. He settles down, curls up, and hugs a pillow to his chest.

Sleep is hard to come by when all he can see is Dean’s anguished face and the fury in his eyes.

\--

Castiel drags himself out of bed at around eleven. He feels lethargic and nearly hungover as he changes out of his stiff denim jeans and pulls on a clean pair of sweats. Going down to the kitchen feels like a marathon, and brewing tea is nearly an impossible task because his grip is so weak he can hardly hold a teacup. 

Benny had told him to give Dean time to grieve… and yet it feels like Castiel is the one in mourning. 

He’s staring blankly at the stove, thinking about breaking his ‘no lazy magic’ rule so he can whip up some bacon and eggs with a thought instead of with his tired body. Sighing, he reaches for a lower cupboard to grab a frying pan, ears pricking at the sound of the front door opening. At first he thinks it’s Benny, but then there’s a different charge in the air and Castiel straightens just in time to see Dean stalking towards him, eyes blazing and strides quick.

“Dean-” Castiel grunts when Dean grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pins him to the counter. The frying pan clatters to the floor in his surprise, Dean’s strength and overwhelming presence short circuiting his brain. 

“Shut up,” Dean hisses. 

Castiel shuts up, his body taut and tense as he waits for Dean’s next move. 

He doesn’t expect the wildfire and gunsmoke kiss Dean lands on his mouth.

Instinct overtakes shock as Castiel reaches up to grab Dean by the lapels of his coat, hauling him closer. The edge of the counter is digging into his hip but that’s a faint sensation compared to the way Dean is swiping his tongue into his mouth and clacking their teeth together. Dean’s hands are strong as they reach behind Castiel to grip his thighs and haul him up onto the counter, Castiel’s legs automatically wrapping around Dean’s hips to keep him close, needy pants and low groans passing between their lips as they kiss like they’re drowning, the dam broken. Castiel’s brain is trying to process the fact that Dean is _kissing_ him, but his body is onboard enough to help when Dean starts tugging his shirt up. 

Panting heavily and feeling his skin flush once his shirt clears his head, Castiel struggles to pull the material the rest of the way off of his arms and past his wrists to drop it onto the floor. In that time Dean has moved his mouth down his neck and is sucking a bruise into his clavicle; a year of tension snaps inside Castiel and he moves his hands to tangle into Dean’s hair, yanking him back up for another demanding kiss. Dean’s hands are all over him and Castiel interrupts to push the carhartt jacket off of Dean’s broad shoulders, the sound of it hitting the floor muffled. Next is Dean’s flannel, shoved down his arms unceremoniously - Dean nips sharply at Castiel’s lower lip and shrugs out of the shirt, tossing it aside. He grabs the hem of his tee and pulls it up and over his head and now Castiel’s hands go to Dean’s chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples, relishing the groan Dean lets out in reply. 

It’s too much and not enough all at once. Castiel’s brain misfires a few times when Dean’s hands go to his ass and tug him to the edge of the counter, their groins pressing together as Castiel’s balance tips slightly backwards. His head knocks against the cupboards but neither of them pay any mind to that, hips rolling, heat spreading through their limbs. That phantom sensation in Castiel’s chest amplifies and when Dean whuffs out a surprised breath he knows the same feeling is in Dean’s ribs, powerful, strong, uninhibited. Castiel’s hard cock is tenting his sweats and Dean’s denim is too thick for Castiel to feel the heat of him but the dirty grind they set up is incredible, rutting against each other desperately, mouths meeting so they can share breath more than actually kiss. Castiel drops his head back again and Dean bites at the exposed column of his throat, tongue tracing tattoos, Castiel’s blunt nails leaving crescent moons in the meat of Dean’s freckled biceps as he holds on for dear life.

Release is a tidal wave. It blindsides Castiel and steals his breath, his entire body shaking and trembling through it, Dean’s name falling from his lips in an undignified whine. Dean is close behind, teeth sinking into the curve of Castiel’s throat, the skin breaking. They ride the high, movements slowing, bodies twitching with aftershocks, and when Dean pulls away, lips shiny with spit and red with blood, pupils dark and hair wild, Castiel reaches out to catch his jaw and swipe his thumb over the crimson mess. It smears, and Dean looks beautifully debauched.

Dean seems to come back to himself, licking his lips and taking a step back. Castiel nearly falls off the counter, too loose-limbed to support himself, and Dean helps him get back on his feet with careful, reverent hands. Castiel’s hands are on Dean’s biceps for support, his lower back still pressed against the counter, their gazes locked as they try to suss out what exactly just happened.

“Dean…” Castiel’s voice sounds wrecked. He doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he’s been waiting too long to have Dean like this, and now that he has, he starts to feel anxiety ripple within him at the thought of Dean walking away from him.

Again.

Dean sucks in a quick breath, lifting his hands to cup Castiel’s jaw. Dean never really initiates contact, so the action surprises Castiel and settles deep within his bones. Dean presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes, taking in a calming breath. 

“I need you.” 

The three words Castiel has been waiting for tumble from Dean’s swollen lips, and Castiel can’t help but freeze in surprise, eyes searching Dean’s features. 

“You’re still an ass,” Dean grits out, but the insult is softened by his fingers carding through Castiel’s hair and down to the base of his neck so he can tip Castiel’s head back, holding eye contact. “And this is all still fucked the hell up.” He looks so beautiful, freckled skin marred by smears of blood, green eyes bright, brow slightly furrowed. “But we gotta do this. And I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Castiel’s nods, his skin stinging where Dean had bitten his throat. Dean presses their foreheads together one more time and then pulls away, gently clapping Castiel on the good side of his neck. 

“Let’s get that cleaned up.” 

Still a little dazed, Castiel picks up his shirt off the floor. There’s drying cum in his sweats and it’s massively uncomfortable and Dean can’t be much better off, but he gets the first aid kit from the pantry and sits at the island while Dean carefully cleans him up after redressing. Castiel’s gaze is out the window when he speaks, unsure if he can say it directly to Dean’s face.

“I understood.” 

Dean pauses in cleaning the wound with an alcohol soaked cotton pad. The confusion is evident in his voice, “Understood what?” 

“Why you hated me.” 

Dean doesn’t reply as he carefully continues treating Castiel. 

“I did nothing to earn your trust, and it is because of me that your livelihood…” Castiel swallows. “I am sorry, Dean.” He falls quiet, then, unsure what else he can say. 

Dean finishes dressing the wound, fingertips trailing along the edge of the bandage gently before he pulls away so he can start packing up the kit. “Me, too.” A moment of silence passes between them while Dean puts the kit away, and then he’s back in Castiel’s space. He doesn’t touch him, but he’s close enough that Castiel feels thankful for the warmth, Dean’s body nearly too big between Castiel’s knees. “But I don’t hate you, Cas. Not anymore.” 

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t deserve-”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts. Castiel finally looks at his face. Dean has cleaned the blood from his skin and he fidgets with his hands for a moment before stuffing them into his pockets, an act he does when he’s trying hard to not close off his body language by folding his arms habitually over his chest. “You’re really annoying, you’re old as fuck, you got terrible social skills-” Castiel’s heart drops. “-but your heart is in the right place. You save lives, and you’re gonna continue to save lives. It takes a gallon of coffee for you to wake up in the morning and don’t think I didn’t notice you have your cutlery drawer organized by size. Sometimes I really do wanna punch you in the face, but other times I also just really wanna kiss your face, so I just-” he shrugs his shoulders, green eyes dropping to the floor. “My wires get crossed and I know I’m not the easiest person either. But we’re in this together, for better or worse, and I…” he shrugs again, going for nonchalant and missing it by a mile as he looks outside the window. “I coulda been stuck with someone worse.” 

Castiel absorbs the words for a solid thirty seconds, before he feels a smile cracking his lips. “That’s very romantic, Dean.” 

Dean bristles and sends Castiel a glare. “Don’t make me take it back.” 

“I do not tend to dwell,” Castiel says, getting off of the stool. “Your secret is safe for me.” 

“With me.” Then Dean lifts a finger, “And it ain’t a secret.”

Castiel lofts a curious brow.

“Apparently everyone on God’s green earth, ‘cept us, knew we were pussyfooting around each other. Sam’s the one that told me to come over.” 

Castiel snorts, and then immediately winces when his throat throbs. He reaches up to gingerly touch the bandages as he speaks. “I suppose now that we’ve gotten this out of the way, we will be able to move forward.” 

Dean chews his lower lip, his gaze flicking over Castiel’s body. Castiel does his best to not shrink in on himself. Feeling self-conscious is new. “Sure. Right.” 

“Everyone is at Charlie’s house searching for the person who rescued Kevin,” Castiel says, knowing he needs to change the subject now or else they never will. 

That sobers Dean up a bit and he nods, letting out a breath. “Went and saw him and Alfie at the hospital this mornin’. They’re doin’ good.” 

“What are the police saying?” Castiel asks, curious. 

Dean shrugs. “Terrorist attack in a public place. They think the bomb was planted at the cafe ‘cause it was central and easy for someone to get in and out of undetected.”

Castiel nods. “It is best to let them do their job. Let them believe what they want.” 

Dean nods in agreement. He scrubs a hand over his mouth and then meets Castiel’s gaze. “We should head over to Charlie’s.”

“Yes,” Castiel rotates his shoulder a bit, his muscles a bit sore from the pain radiating from the bite. “I will get dressed and we can go.” 

“Cas,” Dean calls out just as Castiel is starting to ascend the stairs. Ducking down a bit so he can see Dean in the kitchen, Castiel tilts his head. Dean doesn’t meet his gaze. “Can you uh. Bring me a clean pair of pants?” 

Castiel smiles wryly to himself. “Of course, Dean.”


	16. The Almighty, The Evil, & The Wicked

“Woah,” Dean says intelligently as he and Castiel enter Charlie’s house. The space isn’t small by any means but every surface sturdy enough to hold something is occupied, either with technology, gadgetry, or books. Couches are decorated with mismatched pillows and blankets, there’s music playing from somewhere inside and strange but interesting art on the walls; it’s lived in and smells like home. There’s a soft smile on Dean’s face as he takes it all in. Charlie and Castiel did well in turning their homes into reflections of their personalities, and here is evidence that the two couldn’t be any more different.

“Bagels are being delivered!” Charlie calls from a different part of the house when the door shuts noisily behind them.

Sam comes into the foyer, sending Castiel a small smile before clapping his brother on the back. “Glad you made it. How are Kevin and Alfie?” 

“Alive,” Dean says. Almost a joke, misses by about a mile.

Sam grimaces. “Well, we think we have a lead on whoever saved Kevin.” 

That makes Castiel perk up, leaving Dean’s side to no doubt find out more information. It leaves Dean and Sam alone in the foyer and Dean bends to start unlacing his boots once he notices everyone else’s shoes on a rack. As wild and bright as this home is, it’s still got a semblance of cleanliness and organization, which he appreciates. When he straightens Sam is giving him an inscrutable look, which makes Dean automatically go on the defense.

“What?” 

Sam raises an eyebrow and lets his gaze fall to Dean’s lounge pants. “Those aren’t yours.”

Dean feels his cheeks heat. “Spilled food on my jeans at Cas’s.”

Nodding, and clearly not believing Dean at all, Sam lets Dean brush by him as he lets out an amused chortle. They make their way to the informal dining room, which looks more like a mad scientist lab than anything; Gabriel and Charlie are standing in front of a series of tubes and wires, watching electricity run back and forth between two glass spheres. Castiel is standing off to the side, arms folded across his chest, thumb on his lower lip as he watches carefully. Dean’s not really sure what they’re waiting for so he leans against the doorway, sliding his hands into the pockets of his soft pants. Castiel’s soft pants. Whatever. 

A purple spark erupts before depositing a tiny fuschia cloud into a waiting vial. It’s not a solid but not quite a liquid, gaseous as it swirls and sparks, and Charlie picks it up and puts a cork in the vial before handing it over to Castiel. Castiel takes the tube and holds it up directly in front of his eyes so the light can catch on it, and the way his jaw tenses and his brow furrows can’t mean anything good.

“Who is it?” Jack asks from where he’s sitting in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table.

“This is not good,” Castiel says gravely. He passes the vial to Gabriel, who also gets a good look and pales slightly before clumsily handing it like a hot potato back to Castiel. Rolling his eyes, Castiel uncorks the vial and blows into it, the purple cloud disappearing. It sort of reminds Dean of Castiel’s own blue haze when he’s casting magic.

“Care to share with the class?” Dean grumps.

“Rowena,” Castiel says. Lights flicker, a breeze blows through the house, and everyone but Dean and Sam get tense.

“Who’s that?” Dean asks, confused. 

“Bad news, Dean-o,” Gabriel says. 

Charlie looks a little nauseous when she says, “We haven’t seen her in years. Why is she back now?” 

“Because Lucifer is powerful,” Castiel says simply. “She is only interested in being on the winning side.” 

“Hey,” Dean starts.

“So you’re saying we’re gonna lose?” Charlie asks, voice meek.

“Hey-”

“No, I’ll bet anything Rowena saved Kev yesterday to try and figure out where she can place her bets. We owe her one, now.” Gabriel rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling. 

Castiel frowns deeper, “Do you think she will try to collect?” 

“HEY!”

Everyone falls quiet at Dean’s aggravated outburst, five sets of eyes turning towards him. Checking his temper, Dean folds his arms tightly across his chest so he doesn’t fidget with so many people staring at him. 

“Who the fuck is Rowena?” 

Castiel rubs his right temple idly. “A thorn that has been in my side for forty years.” Sighing, and looking more tired than Dean has ever seen him, Castiel gestures idly. “Let us go have seat. I will explain.” 

Everyone shuffles into Charlie’s living room. It’s not as spacious as Castiel’s, especially since various objects (books, jars, papers) need to be removed from seats so that a human can fit comfortably, but they all make do as they take up residence in a quasi-circle on the recliners and couches. Dean doesn’t like how this Rowena sounds already, and when he sits next to Castiel on the love seat he’s too focused on the impending explanation to notice that they’re sitting so close they’re touching from shoulder to thigh. 

It’s Gabriel that speaks first. “Rowena is a very powerful, old witch. She might be the most powerful witch in the country, but we can’t be too sure because as strong as she is, she doesn’t come around too much unless it’s end-of-world type situations. So, considering that brother-dear is on a rampage, I guess we shouldn’t be too surprised that she’s showed up. She likes to bet on the best horse.”

“She’s vile,” Charlie says, her nose wrinkled. “I’ve only met her once and she gave me the heebie-jeebies.”

Dean frowns. “D’you think she’ll help Lucifer?” 

Castiel drums his fingers over his bent knee idly. “We cannot make assumptions. Her saving Kevin yesterday was probably test of some sort to see how we would react.”

“How will she know how we’ll react?” Dean asks.

The doorbell rings and the room falls silent.

“Oh come on,” Dean grouses, rolling his eyes at the theatrics. “Seriously?” 

Castiel gets up from the love seat and heads towards the door while everyone else stays seated, tension filling the air. Dean folds his arms tightly over his chest once more and tries not to stew. He should be grateful that Rowena saved Kevin - and of course, he is - but learning that it was possibly an underhanded trick is grinding his gears. The front door of the house opens out of sight and Dean feels a weird swoop in his gut; it’s Castiel’s reaction to whomever is on the front stoop, their bond transmitting the sensations. 

“Ay-yoo, tweetie pie,” comes a melodious, accented voice. “Yer lookin’ as handsome as ever.”

“Rowena,” Castiel’s voice is flat as it carries back to the living room.

Gabriel stands up when Castiel returns to the living room with a petite redheaded woman in tow; she’s dressed elegantly in chiffon and pearls and Dean blinks a few times to try and wrap his head around this small woman causing such discourse. He’s not really sure what he was expecting. A hobbled old woman? A wart on her nose? Maybe fat and wrinkly?

Rowena is none of those things. 

She opens her arms up as Gabriel approaches her, drawing him in by his hands and giving him a kiss on either cheek. “Gabriel, my sweet angel.” She pats his stomach. “Been layin’ off the treats, I see.”

Gabriel’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me again what brand of concealer you use? Fascinating that it doesn’t settle into your… fine lines.” 

Rowena’s smile turns sharp. “The main ingredient is sacrificial blood of a baby lamb.”

“Rowena, why are you here?” Castiel asks, hovering in the doorway with her and Gabriel.

Rowena titters as she sends Castiel a beautiful smile. “Well! I heard news that your brother is lookin’ to start end times! How exciting.” She claps her hands and turns towards the room and the other occupants, her heavily made up eyes calculating and inquiring. When she catches sight of Sam she hums, passing her purse off into a surprised Gabriel’s arms with a bit of force so she can stride towards where Sam is sitting in a recliner looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Who is this tall drink of water?” Her gaze slants towards Dean. “Aye, there’s two. Dearest Castiel, why do you always hide the goods from me?” 

“They are our hunters,” Castiel’s voice comes out as a protective growl. “Show them some respect.”

This information makes Rowena’s eyebrows rise up her forehead as she looks between Dean and Sam thoughtfully, before her attention goes back towards Castiel and Gabriel, saying factually: “They don’t look like much.”

“Hold your tongue,” Castiel grits out from clenched teeth. 

Rowena rolls her eyes a bit. “Down, boy. I see that you’re fully…” her gaze sweeps over Dean slowly. “...bonded.” She claps her hands and turns towards Dean, smiling brightly. “How is that sweet wee oriental boy?” 

“His name is Kevin,” Dean says gruffly. His arms are still tightly folded over his chest. Rowena is definitely rubbing him the wrong way; he’s starting to see why everyone had felt a stir of panic when it was her magic at the scene. 

“Kevin, yes,” Rowena says, not unkindly. She glances around the seating situation in the living room - the only space available is right next to Dean, so there she sits, prim and proper. She hardly takes up the full cushion, she’s so petite. “Charlie, dear, could I bother you for a cup of tea?”

“Actually yeah, that would bother me,” Charlie grumbles, but she’s standing up anyway, taking the excuse to leave the room. 

Rowena pats Dean’s knee gently. “Now, let’s get down to business. Dean, is it?” Dean shifts his knee away from her touch, scowling. Unperturbed, Rowena addresses Castiel instead. “Your brother is causing quite a mess. Every witch and warlock in New England has fled the country.”

That catches Castiel and Gabriel’s interest. Gabriel asks, “When?”

“Right after the explosion made the news. The registry almost caught fire, so many people were signing themselves out. A mass exodus. The rest of the nation isn’t considered in immediate danger so it’s going much slower across the country.” 

Castiel scowls. “Cowards.”

“Do you blame them?” Rowena asks, with a slight huff. “Your brother is on a rampage. He’s been collecting human souls for dark magic, and if he’s ever so inclined, he could take _magical_ souls as well. People are right to take themselves out of danger.”

“But we could use the help,” Castiel says, frustration in his voice. “They should fight with us.”

Rowena tuts. “Not all of us are warriors, dear. You Krushnics are one of a kind.” 

“So you will not fight?” Castiel asks, his gaze honing in on Rowena.

She at least has the decency to shift uncomfortably. “I saved that boy, didn’t I? Just barely, mind you. I felt the surge of Lucifer’s power and only had a split second to save the poor people in that cafe. Unfortunately I could only save those I could see.” Rowena’s gaze slides over toward Dean. “I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t save them all.”

The humility in her gaze and tone are enough for Dean to lighten up a little. He glances down at his knees, still frowning, but feeling a little less angry. “S’fine. You did what you could.” After a moment he mumbles, “...Thanks.”

She pats his knee again, and this time he doesn’t pull away. Her attention returns to Gabriel and Castiel. “I know you’re gearing up for war, boys. And I wish I could be of some help-”

“You’re the most powerful witch in the _country_ ,” Castiel interrupts, still irritated and impatient. “Your help would be the difference between winning and losing.”

Rowena’s gaze turns icy. “I’m offended on your behalf that you speak so low of your own talents, Castiel. Especially since you have found your hunter. Are you so blind you cannot see how powerful you’ve become?”

That seems to surprise Castiel into silence. A doubtful expression crosses his features as he looks down at himself; he looks harmless in a hoodie and sweats, hair still tousled from where Dean’d had his fingers tangled in it (ain’t that a thought). Clearly everyone else is having the same thought about this great power Castiel supposedly has all of a sudden.

Now Rowena stands up, marching over towards Castiel. It’s laughable that he shrinks back a bit, because Rowena is probably half his size. She reaches up and flicks his forehead with her prettily manicured fingers, frowning deeply. “I am no longer the most powerful witch in the country, you sodding idiot.”

The room goes silent.

Charlie comes back with a tray of tea, the porcelain clinking around enough to break the quiet as she sets it down on the coffee table. “Uh- tea… is served?” 

Rowena spins on heel, red curls bouncing, and then sits down on the couch next to Dean once more. She reaches forward for a teacup, looking massively annoyed. “Honestly, you boys are all so thick. Can’t see past yer own bloody noses.”

“She’s right,” Jack says suddenly. His brow is furrowed thoughtfully, so similar to an expression Castiel wears nearly constantly. “Castiel,” he lifts his gaze towards the man in question, “you _are_ the most powerful. As of right now.” 

“Right now?” Gabriel squints. “As opposed to when he and Dean completed the ritual?”

Jack smiles. “The final act has been sealed in blood. Castiel and Dean have truly bonded, and now Castiel is the most powerful warlock in the country. Perhaps even the world. Aside from Lucifer.”

“Blood?” Gabriel’s eyes turn towards Castiel and, belatedly, his eyes track the bandage slapped on Castiel’s neck.

The room goes silent again as everyone stares at the bandage. Dean pointedly looks away. Rowena takes a calm sip of tea. 

“Dean, you _bit_ him?” Sam asks, incredulous. 

Dean throws his hands up. “Not like I planned it! Or that I knew it would be the- the final seal or whatever the hell!”

Charlie holds out her hand to Gabriel, fingers wiggling. “Hope you got a hunnid dolla bill on you, bucko.”

“I can’t believe he’s not straight,” Gabriel mutters to himself, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket and handing Charlie a stack of twenties, which she takes gleefully. 

“Wait- you guys bet on this?” Dean asks, feeling equal parts horrified and embarrassed. 

“Mostly as a joke,” Charlie says, chipper. “Gabriel said you were straight as an arrow. I said you were straight as a raw noodle.”

Dean glares.

Unhelpfully, Charlie says, “Y’know, straight when dry…” her gaze turns lascivious. “...flexible when wet.”

“Oh my God,” Dean covers his eyes with a hand, sinking back into the couch cushions. 

“While this is very entertaining,” Rowena interrupts, “we do have more important matters to discuss.”

The room sobers slightly, but Dean is still feeling mortified that people had taken bets on not only his sexuality, but apparently his level of attraction towards Castiel. He catches Sam’s eye from across the room and Sam is just smiling knowingly at him, flashing a subtle thumbs up next to his knee, and Dean sinks further into the couch. 

“I’ve got a lead on Lucifer’s location,” Rowena says. That shuts everyone up. “It was very faint, his magic at the cafe, but I was able to do a tracking spell. He’s in Kansas.” 

Dean frowns. “What’s in Kansas?” 

“The gates of Hell,” Castiel says, his voice surprisingly steady and even. 

“Jesus,” Gabriel mutters, “can’t he take a break from being so dramatic for like, five seconds?” 

“Literal Hell,” Dean clarifies. 

“ _Actual_ Hell?” Sam scoots forward in his recliner a bit. Dean knows that look. Sam wants to know all he can, freaking nerd, but there’s the whole pressing matter of, y’know, a guy named _Lucifer_ hanging out at the gates of _Hell_.

“He’ll be at the peak of his power with the gates open,” Castiel explains. “Demon deals are the quickest way to access dark magic. At the gates of Hell, demons will be many.”

“Plentiful,” Dean supplies. “But wait,” he holds up a hand, then points at Gabriel. “Didn’t you talk to the big kahuna yourself?”

Gabriel shrugs helplessly. “He said he’d get Lucifer’s soul if-and-when he dies, not that he wouldn’t give him a hand if he asked.” 

“Fuck,” Dean runs both hands through his hair. 

“But the gates are shut right now, right?” Sam asks. 

“Not for long,” Rowena says, her tone grave. “Lucifer has enough human souls for the spell. If he opens the gates of Hell - if he succeeds and gains more power - the apocalypse isn’t far behind.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Gabriel suddenly says. “You don’t wanna help us to help us, you wanna save your own ass.”

Rowena smiles prettily at Gabriel, “Can’t blame a girl for keepin’ her best interests at heart.”

“No matter the reason for Rowena actually being here,” Castiel cuts in, “she is here as an ally and we must take advantage of that.”

“Nothing is as powerful as devil magic,” Rowena says, setting down her teacup and standing up. “But Castiel is strong enough for us to start working on counterspells.”

“And formulate an attack,” Castiel says. He leans against the doorway to the living room, his arms folded across his chest as he stares at the coffee table. Everyone’s attention is on him when he says, “We’re going to Kansas in ten days.” 

\--

The action moves back to Castiel’s house, simply because he has more square footage not only to accommodate all of the people, but also because he has more space and resources for Charlie’s mad scientist lab and all the research they’re doing. Dean and Sam pack bags when Castiel tells them it would be best if everyone just stayed at the house, so everyone stays in the loop and there would be no delays in information. Dean knows it’s a strategic move also; if Castiel has all his loved ones under one roof, there’s less chance of any of them getting into any trouble. 

Unfortunately, it’s also the most dangerous place for all of them to be, as well.

In any case, suddenly becoming roommates with a ragtag team of people will definitely take some getting used to.

Sam and Gabriel take Dean’s old spare room. Jack stays in his room, Charlie has the extra spare room on the second floor, and Rowena takes the guest room on the main floor. Benny, when he pops in, usually dozes on the couch wrapped up in so many blankets Dean makes a joke about missing his coffin (to which Benny replies easily that he’s “never slept in a coffin, but now that you mention it brother, maybe I should give it a try”). It goes without saying, then, with all of the rooms occupied, that Dean will be sharing Castiel’s room. 

The first night of everyone being under the same roof is pretty uneventful. Everyone gets set up in their rooms, and then everyone pitches in to organize all the books and tomes that they’ll need to go through in order to formulate a plan. Charlie’s weird mad scientist set up hogs the entire dining room, which is fine since there’s enough seating in the kitchen between the bar and the table for everyone to eat meals comfortably. After many hours of menial labor everything is set up, and everyone is wiped. Pizza is ordered, delivered and consumed and then everyone is begging off for the night, agreeing to wake up at seven to get started on the day. 

Dean is the last one in the kitchen, taking care of empty pizza boxes and wiping down the counters. The day has been long - it had started with that visit to the hospital, then barging into Castiel’s house and doing… what they did, and then meeting Rowena had been a whirlwind and setting up Castiel’s house as a sort of command center had been a good thing to focus on - but now that there’s a lull, and Dean is alone, he feels the exhaustion sweeping through him. This day has dragged on forever. Leaning against the counter, he lets out a sigh and stares at the washcloth in his hand. He realizes that this is the counter that he’d had Castiel up on a mere sixteen hours ago, and he feels a flush creep up the back of his neck.

They haven’t had a chance to talk about it. Dean’s not really worried about consent - it’s obvious that Castiel had wanted it, encouraged it, and enjoyed it. He’s worried about what it means for them. The instinct to bite Castiel during their encounter had been almost foreign; like some outside force was guiding his mouth to that sweet patch of skin. And maybe that’s exactly what it had been; after all, Castiel had never mentioned a blood bond, but that’s where they are now, and if it means that Castiel is now all-powerful or whatever, then Dean won’t regret it. 

He’ll still be slightly worried about how it had been like some weird, primal instinct to do it, an act borne of that animalistic need and not necessarily conscious thought, but… he won’t regret it. 

Besides, he and Castiel are acting as they normally do. Extended eye contact, occasional shoulder pats and short, but precise conversation. Nothing has really changed. 

Except now Dean knows how Castiel sounds when he moans. Now Dean knows how Castiel looks when he’s lost in pleasure. Now Dean knows what Castiel’s lips taste like, what his skin feels like under his mouth, sweaty and flushed with arousal. He knows those tattoos intimately, can still feel the ghost sensation of his silky, dark hair falling through his fingers... 

“Dean?” 

Jack’s voice causes Dean’s shoulders to tense up and he finishes wiping down the counter, turning around to face him with a small, but tired smile. “Hey, buddy. What’s up?” 

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Jack asks curiously. 

“Ah,” Dean gestures idly around the kitchen, which is now spotless. “Just cleanin’ up.” 

Jack frowns. “One of us could have done that.”

“S’been a long day,” Dean shrugs, walking back over to the sink. He turns on the faucet and starts rinsing the washcloth, squeezing and wringing it until the water is free of suds. “Just tryna wind down.”

“You are nervous about sleeping with Castiel,” Jack observes. 

Dean hates that the kid seems to be so freaking in tune with what’s going on between Dean and Castiel. In fact, the kid seems pretty intuitive in general. “Kinda.” Why hide it?

“He is nervous too,” Jack says. “He’s still awake. Reading a book, I think. There is light under the door.” 

Sighing, Dean hangs the washcloth on the faucet and then grabs the dish towel off of the oven handle to dry his hands. “It’s dumb, innit? Bein’ nervous about sleeping with him.”

“Not really,” Jack says, shaking his head. His expression is soft. “You two have had a … difficult relationship. Sharing a bed is incredibly intimate. You are at odds often enough that it’s unsurprising you have reservations about it.”

Dean hangs the towel back on the handle, fidgeting with it idly and avoiding Jack’s gaze. “S’not weird?” 

“No, Dean,” Jack says warmly. “Having butterflies when thinking about the one you care about is normal, I hear.” 

Dean laughs a little deliriously, and then nods. He leaves the dish towel and then walks towards Jack, gently squeezing his shoulder. “You’re a good kid, Jack.”

Jack positively beams with the praise. “I am going to have a glass of milk and then go to bed.”

Dean watches him quietly for a moment, and then speaks. “Hey, uh… not to be a dick or anything, but. Cas and Gabe are warlocks, and Rowena is a witch… and they say you’re key to defeating Lucifer. But I haven’t seen you do any spellcasting.”

The unasked question makes Jack smile as he opens the fridge. “I am a Seer. My magic lies more in psychic abilities than being able to cast spells.” He pours himself a glass of milk, sipping on it as he shuts the door. 

“So you can see the future?” Dean asks, blinking in surprise. He wasn’t expecting that.

“I have the ability to see all possible outcomes of any given situation,” Jack elaborates. “It’s not precise. Fate isn’t set in stone, and people are capable of changing their destinies at any given moment.”

“Huh,” Dean hums thoughtfully. “That makes sense I guess.” Castiel had said something similar at one point. He wants to ask Jack about the battle ahead - wants to know all the possibilities, wants to know any of the outcomes, but even he’s seen enough movies to know better than to ask. And as Jack said, the future is changeable. Dean doesn’t want to know either way. He just wants to go straight in at the top of his game, no matter what the outcome may be. Smiling a bit softer, Dean reaches out and gives Jack’s shoulder another squeeze. “‘Night.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Jack says.

Walking up the stairs still feels like climbing Mt. Everest, when Dean gets to it. He steels himself and forces himself up one by one, and then when he’s on the landing, he can’t help but check in on everyone. He’s stalling, but he’s also doing a sort of room check to make sure everyone is safe and sound before the night ends. 

It’s similar to how he has always, and even still, checks on Sam before turning in for the night. 

Jack’s room: empty. Jack is downstairs having a glass of milk.

Charlie’s room: dark under the door. He leans his ear against the wood and listens intently; there’s faint music playing and soft snores underneath the melodies, and he smiles softly. Figures that such a noisy and bright person wouldn’t even sleep quietly. 

Across the way, Sam and Gabriel’s room: Dean leans his ear against the door, looking down to see it dark underneath. There’s soft murmuring inside, though; pillow talk. Warm. Comforting. Familiar. For all of Gabriel’s annoying bravado he truly has been good for Sam and Dean allows himself to finally feel a bit of gratitude for Sam finding some semblance of normalcy among all the chaos. How many times have they shared a bed like this? How easy was it for them to fall into a routine?

Aside from the communal bathroom up here, all that’s left is Castiel’s room. Dean stares at the door like it’s some sort of mythical beast to get past in order to save the princess or something, and he half expects the wood to rattle threateningly at any time. His fingers flex and curl at his sides and he takes a steadying breath before knocking once gently to announce his presence, noting the soft light spilling across the wood floor. 

No monsters in this room.

Just an invigorating population of all of Dean’s insecurities heaping into one pile all at once.

“Come in,” comes Castiel’s muffled voice.

Dean opens the door and steps inside. Castiel is, indeed, reading by lamplight. He’s on the right side of the large bed, glasses low on his nose. He’s wearing a t-shirt and probably pants, the covers of the bed bunched over his waist and hiding his legs from view. The left side of the bed - Dean’s side - is still made, but the corner of the blankets are turned down invitingly. 

Patiently. 

Dean swallows the dryness in his throat. He moves to his duffel bag, grabbing his toiletry bag out of it and sending Castiel a slightly awkward smile before disappearing into the ensuite. He shuts the door (but doesn’t lock it), and then glances around. Castiel’s bedroom is simply furnished, the scent of lavender and patchouli that clings to the rest of the house strongest in here. It’s not as eclectic as the decor in the basement, but Dean supposes Castiel only sleeps in his bedroom; he probably doesn’t feel the need to add any personal touches. 

The bathroom, however, is a different story. 

There’s a claw-footed bathtub against the far wall, centered beneath a large, frosted glass window. The hardware and the clawed feet are a polished silver, and there’s a few floating shelves just under the window lined with what looks like bath salts and bubbles. In the corner is a glass-enclosed shower with three freaking shower heads - one in the ceiling, and then one on each wall, which likely put out a direct spray to the body. Dean’d bet his savings that they’ve got massage settings. The black marble vanity counter has two sinks and ample counter space between them; the mirror is large and one solid piece of glass. Opposite is the toilet, tucked into a bit of an alcove, shelving above holding various linens as well as some cleaners and air freshener. There’s a hex bag, too, and Dean finds himself smiling at how… normal, if not a bit effeminate, the bathroom is. 

It’s calming. 

He goes about his business getting ready for bed; relieving himself, washing his hands, then washing his face. He pats on moisturizer and then changes into his own sweats and tank top, checking to make sure he didn’t leave a mess behind before he exits the bathroom. Castiel is still propped up against the ornate, cherry wood headboard, surrounded by what looks like a mountain of regular pillows and throw pillows. ‘Dean’s side’ is closest to the bathroom so he puts his toiletry bag back in his duffel and then moves towards the bed, sitting on the edge at first, almost hesitant to invite himself in. 

The bed is huge. So big that if he and Castiel were to lie down just like this, there would be about three feet of space, comfortably, between them. They wouldn’t touch at all, probably, throughout the night. 

As Dean swings his legs up and pulls the covers back to get beneath them, he suddenly feels that three foot gap like a giant gaping chasm. 

Castiel places a bookmark between the pages he has open and then sets the book down on the nightstand - Dean catches a peek at the author, and can’t help but snort in amusement. 

“Dan Brown?” Dean asks as he lies down with his head on the pillow, body rotated to face Castiel.

Castiel clicks the lamp off and folds up his glasses next to his book, before settling down and facing Dean as well. Dean’s never seen him in the dark like this; even without proper light, Castiel’s eyes seem to have an ethereal glow. The space between them feels too far and too close all at once, but Dean is, of course, too chicken to do anything about it. 

“Dan Brown tells very riveting stories,” Castiel says. 

“Your life is a Dan Brown novel,” Dean says with a hint of amusement. “Action, adventure, mystery.” 

“In comparison I suppose his novels are rather dull,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “But… you know that the plot will be resolved, in the end. No loose threads. Everyone happy and alive.”

Dean feels a squeeze in his chest that he’s not entirely sure is his own. “Yeah- that’s kinda why I love scary movies so much. First of all, it’s fake. Secondly… depending on the movie, the bad guy gets defeated.”

Castiel hums his agreement. “These little slices of fiction are easy to enjoy because they remove you from reality, even if temporarily.”

Quiet falls over them. Knowing that he and Castiel share the same feelings about books and movies seems to bridge a bit of the gap between them. Over the past weeks Dean has been learning more and more about Castiel - not just because of the ritual, but outside of that as well, and he’s been learning that Castiel is just as human, just as fallible, as anyone else. It’s a bit unnerving, because Castiel has always seemed so… _in_ human, so otherworldly. Dean has always felt so puny next to him, but here in Castiel’s room - in the dark, in the same bed, bound by magic and by something else - he feels like he’s on a bit more sturdy ground.

So to speak.

“Cas,” Dean says at the same time Castiel murmurs, “Dean.”

They both pause. 

Castiel continues, “What happened this morning…” Dean’s gut drops. This is it, isn’t it? The rejection. Even though Castiel had clearly enjoyed it and encouraged it, surely he has some regrets? He and Castiel weren’t supposed to have ‘that’ type of bond, not like Sam and Gabe - Castiel had even said that they weren’t going to go down that path. And yet Dean had barged in and didn’t even _ask_ Castiel if it was ok and oh no, that panic from when he was cleaning the kitchen rises again- “Did you mean it?”

“What?” Dean asks, all of his erratic thoughts grinding to a halt. 

“The kiss, and…” Castiel’s voice is unnaturally unsure. “...Everything else.”

Dean falls quiet, and then feels a few strong emotions bubbling up in his chest. “Cas, of _course_ \- shit, I- I didn’t even think to ask if you- if it was ok. I’m such an asshole. I know you said we don’t have to have a bond like Sam and Gabe and that’s totally cool, I’m fine with that-” he’s not, “-and I probably crossed a line jumpin’ the gun like that-”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel’s voice is soft, but it shuts Dean up all the same. After a beat, “Did you mean it?”

Tongue tied, Dean takes a second to regroup his thoughts and emotions. Castiel’s eyes are still glowing dimly in the dark, and Dean lets out a breath on the back of, “Yes.” 

The space between them shrinks. It takes Dean a moment to realize that Castiel is closing it, reaching out towards Dean. Without thinking about it Dean reaches out as well - one hand grabs Castiel’s, the other his shoulder, and then they’re slotting together. Dean’s head gets tucked under Castiel’s chin, a thigh between Castiel’s legs; their joined hands are between their chests and Castiel has an arm underneath Dean’s neck to wrap around his shoulders.

It’s effortless. 

Dean relaxes so much he feels like he’s turning into a puddle. Castiel relaxes also, and for a few blissful moments it’s just them holding on to each other in the cover of darkness, listening to each other’s breathing, feeling each other’s heartbeats. 

“You were worried about my consent,” Castiel murmurs quietly into Dean’s hair.

Dean doesn’t answer, but his fingers squeeze Castiel’s. 

“You are truly remarkable,” Castiel says softly, voice full of reverence. “I have done so many things without your consent, and yet you were worried about this one thing…”

“Sex is important,” Dean argues. “Like, the number one consent thing.” 

“But your free will is not?” Castiel counters. “Your freedom? I have taken both without asking and used them only to my advantage.”

“That’s different,” Dean insists. He knows Castiel harbors some bad thoughts and feelings about how he got Dean involved in this whole thing. “All of that was necessary.”

“I could have done it differently,” Castiel’s voice drops to a whisper. 

Dean pulls back a bit, tipping his head so he can look up into Castiel’s eyes. “Stop, Cas. Stop beating yourself up over something you can’t change. It happened, and we still got to where we are now. _Right now_.” Dean emphasizes his point by squeezing Castiel’s frame. “Still pisses me off that you blackmailed me, but Cas, you don’t really do things ‘by the book’.”

“If there was a manual for recruiting a hunter I assure you, I would have read it cover to cover,” Castiel swears solemnly.

Dean snorts a little, pressing his face back into the crook of Castiel’s neck. The bandage tickles his cheek. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. We’re all here under one roof. Rowena’s a crazy bitch, I can tell, but she’s willing to help and we gotta count that as a win.”

“A win,” Castiel repeats gently. He exhales deeply, his body relaxing further. “You’re right.”

They lie like that for a few more minutes, Dean still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’s not only sharing a bed with Castiel, but _snuggling_ him, of all things. He’s more relaxed than he’s ever been, even in his own bed, and it doesn’t take long for him to start to drift off - lavender, patchouli, and the faint scent of burning embers lulling him to sleep. 

Tomorrow, they will start preparing to make the first big move of the war. 

\--*--

Castiel, despite being a white witch and one with nature, isn’t typically fond of mornings. He gets up early because the morning sun recharges him in a way the afternoon one doesn’t; the morning sun is full of new hope, a new day, and endless optimism. Whether or not Castiel actually feels hope or optimism is usually out for the jury until after he’s had a copious amount of caffeine, but all the same, waking up with the sun is the best way for his powers to refuel and prepare for the day ahead. Normally he wakes up with the sun - able to stir even without an alarm, his body having an inherent sense of when exactly the sun is about to crest the horizon - and goes through morning stretches on the yoga mat he keeps rolled up and stored underneath the bed. Then, after his body is awake, he heads downstairs to wake up his mind with some sort of breakfast and - yes, of course - lots of coffee. His morning routine hasn’t been shaken for decades, and when he initially stirs he thinks today is going to be much of the same… until he realizes it won’t be.

Dean is pressed up against his back, their bodies fitted together like long lost puzzle pieces, as wretchedly cliche as it sounds. Dean’s knees are in the bend of Castiel’s, an arm draped around his waist, nose pressed into the nape of Castiel’s neck, his soft breaths washing over the skin there and causing tiny shudders to run through his waking body. 

Another part of Dean is also pressed against Castiel, and Castiel takes a moment to try and figure out the best course of action. Instinctually, he wants to rock back against Dean’s erection - wants to roll over and awaken Dean with pleasure, bring him to the land of the living with a sweet release. He tamps down that desire and thinks rationally. Dean is asleep, so he’s not aware of his body’s natural response to being close to someone in slumber. Castiel could get away and Dean wouldn’t know any better; in fact, Dean would probably sleep on, uninterrupted. Castiel knows Dean isn’t an early riser by choice, so he’ll probably easily continue to sleep even with Castiel’s absence. 

That doesn’t mean that Castiel doesn’t _want_ to pleasure Dean, of course. 

More that there are more important things to think about. 

It’s the right decision to make, Castiel thinks to himself as he gingerly extracts his body from Dean’s vice-like hold. For being normally so standoffish about physical touch, the man sleeps like a barnacle. Castiel has to replace his body with a big pillow, which Dean hugs to himself and snuffles into without waking, and then Castiel stands on the floor, hands on his hips as he regards Dean. 

So much has changed in the past few weeks. It’s a little overwhelming. But they’re on the same page, as far as consent goes. Sexual consent, and everything in between. It almost feels like being in a different dimension. Bending to pull his yoga mat out from under the bed, Castiel unrolls it and then shakes out his limbs before starting with some basic stretches while he thinks. The bonding ritual had been exemplary, of course. Everything they’ve done has always been tinged with just the slightest bit of taboo, just a hint of that attraction simmering underneath the surface. Their relationship escalating into something physical isn’t all that surprising, but Dean’s insecurity last night has Castiel examining their relationship in a different light. 

Bending at the waist, Castiel presses his forehead to his knees, gently wrapping his arms around his calves as he takes in a few deep breaths. 

Castiel has always known that his initial attraction to Dean - sparked years ago in the Quincy Market - would one day come back and… bite him in the ass, as Dean would say. He had done his best to squash that attraction in the beginning by keeping himself physically and emotionally distant from Dean for as long as he could. The ritual, of course, was something he had both looked forward to and dreaded; looked forward to bonding with Dean, and at the same time, dreaded bonding with him. A double-edged knife. 

No, that’s the wrong phrase.

Hm.

Downward-facing dog. 

Has becoming intimate with Dean complicated things? Castiel stares at the soft cream color of his yoga mat, brow furrowed. Things don’t _feel_ complicated. He and Dean had fallen asleep (and woken up) in each other’s arms and the world doesn’t feel any different. Not in a negative way. Instead, Castiel feels… more protected, more bonded than ever. This can only strengthen them, right?

Mountain pose. Transition into crescent lunge. 

Exhaling slowly, Castiel stares at the curtains blocking the sunlight from the window. He should open them to feel the sun on his skin, but he doesn’t wish to wake Dean. 

Transition to warrior pose. 

Castiel redirects his focus on his stretches and building up his energy. Fifteen more minutes of pacing and then he’s straightening, a bit of sweat on his brow as he rolls up his yoga mat and tucks it under the bed again. He takes a quick shower and dresses in jeans and a t-shirt for the day, gives another glance towards sleeping Dean, and then quietly exits the bedroom. Down in the kitchen he’s unsurprised to see Rowena flitting about, fixing herself a cup of tea while coffee percolates on the counter. 

“Morning dearie,” she greets cheerily. 

Castiel is still mildly suspicious about her presence, but he decides to be civil as he opens the pantry. “Good morning. You are up early.”

“You’re not the only one who recharges by the morning light,” Rowena says with a knowing smile. She sits at the island and watches as Castiel starts putting together quick oats. “I know you’re still unsure about me being here. I can’t alleviate your worries about that, but I do want you to know that no matter my past transgressions, I would never wish an _apocalypse_ on the world.” 

Castiel puts a pot of water on the stove, clicking the gas on and eyeing Rowena thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose that is low, even for you.”

She smiles prettily, “Indeed.”

For the next ten minutes the only sound in the kitchen is the rhythmic _shk shk_ of the knife hitting the cutting board as Castiel slices some fruit. He arranges his bowl of oatmeal neatly with the fruit displayed by color, a dollop of yogurt on top and drizzled with some honey. After a moment of deliberation he pours his coffee and then takes a seat next to Rowena at the counter.

“Do you think Lucifer will be able to open the gates of Hell?” Castiel asks when he’s nearly finished with his oatmeal, now sure he can stomach the reply. 

“I’m afraid he’s already halfway there,” Rowena says softly. She sets her teacup down. “It’s only a matter of time until he completes the ritual.”

“What does he need to complete it?” Castiel asks, pushing some blueberries around in his yogurt. 

“ _And the gates of Hell should be opened by the Almighty, the Evil and the Wicked_ ,” Rowena recites. She’s quoting the _Book of the Damned_ , an ancient grimoire supposedly lost, but with translations still echoing around various covens. Castiel himself hasn’t laid eyes on it, but he has his suspicions about how Rowena had come to be as powerful as she is. “ _The purity of the Almighty, the intent of the Evil, and the knowledge of the Wicked._ ” She rotates her cup this way and that. “The Evil being the devil, you know. He’s always wanting to come topside and this would be the perfect opportunity. The knowledge of the Wicked - your brother. And the purity of the Almighty…” Rowena slants her gaze towards Castiel. She looks regal as ever, makeup and hair done, today’s dress an elegant silk drapery with ruby fastenings that highlight the color of her braids. “Which is you, sweet bee. The mightiest warlock in the world.” 

Castiel’s jaw tenses, fear roiling in his gut. “I am not Almighty-”

“But aren’t you?” Rowena says, incredulity in her voice. “You’ve had a few wayward moments, boyo, but your intentions are always pure. The power within you is incredible. And since you’ve completed that finicky ritual, that handsome man has amplified everything within you. You _are_ Almighty. And the very last thing Lucifer needs to open the gates of Hell.” She hums. “The Devil may have laid claim on Lucifer’s soul, but that’s not to say that he won’t help the bastard wreak havoc on the planet. Apocalypse is end times. It’s written in that silly little bible. Heaven surely hasn’t made any attempt to stop it.” She lets out a wistful sigh, resting a pointy elbow on the counter and propping her chin carefully in her hand as she turns her head towards Castiel. “God surely made a mistake when you were born a warlock, and not an angel.”

“If Lucifer needs me to complete the ritual, going to him will be a trap,” Castiel realizes. 

Rowena nods solemnly. “Aye.”

“We cannot allow him to use me like that,” Castiel says, finally turning to meet Rowena’s gaze. The air is heavy. “We cannot allow him to open the gates of Hell.” He suddenly thinks of Jack, and the powerful bomb buried deep within him. Lucifer has planted it for a reason, and Lucifer had also apparently known that Castiel would ascend to full power as soon as he bonded with his Winchester. One step ahead. Maybe even three. Castiel curls the fingers of his free hand into a fist on his thigh. “He cannot use _us_ like that.”

The small smile on Rowena’s lips is a little sad when she nods. “Aye, sweet bird. He cannot.”


	17. End Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check the end notes for tags/warnings if you're particularly sensitive- **contains spoilers**

Everything and nothing has changed, between Dean and Castiel. Their rushed frotting session in the kitchen brought them closer physically, sure, maybe even emotionally, but it was far from a starstruck love confession and wasn’t exactly the best segue into preparing for war. It could perhaps be considered a blip on the radar, a very pleasurable detour; but their relationship hasn’t really changed, for better or for worse. 

Then again, that’s not entirely true. They still don’t touch each other excessively - very much still in the realm of shoulder pats and friendly nudges - but each touch now has layers to it. Each touch lingers just a little bit longer, but not too outrageously long to be significant. Castiel still stares at Dean like he’s the world’s most complicated rubix cube and Dean still gets snappy and impatient with him. But much like after the bonding ceremony, there’s nuance to these interactions. Dean isn’t gullible enough to think it’s some sort of romantic revelation, but he’s smart enough to know that while grinding on each other til they came in their pants might not have been the greatest way to further their bond, it certainly didn’t set them back at all.

They don’t share chaste good morning kisses, when they sleep in bed at night they don’t consciously cuddle (but Dean has found himself entangled with the man more than once, and hey, he knows it’s just basic biology. Not to mention, Castiel fits just right against him and sleeps like the dead so Dean never worries about disturbing him when he rearranges their limbs in the middle of the night so he doesn’t get a cramp), and really, there’s no exaggerated affection to speak of. Things go about as normal, ish, and though Dean catches himself staring at Castiel’s mouth and wanting to taste it, he resists. 

They’re preparing for war, and he’s got to keep his head in the game. 

“What a spread,” Gabriel comments in surprise when he comes into the kitchen bright and early. 

It’s day four of preparations and Dean has felt pretty useless. Castiel, Rowena, Gabriel and Charlie have been devising plans and looking up various options to fight against Lucifer. Sam and Jack have lent their eyes to research, Benny is still popping in and out of the house so he can check on the wives in Castiel’s protection and do other mafia-related business to keep up the Krushnic image, and Dean hasn’t really been asked to do anything specific so he’s fallen into caretaker mode. He cooks three meals a day, provides snacks, and tidies up after everyone’s gone to bed. He feels like he could be doing more, but everyone shows their gratitude in different ways, and if he can keep everyone fed and caffeinated while they’re preparing for the frigging apocalypse, then that’s what he’ll do.

Not sensing any sort of underlying sarcasm in Gabriel’s statement, Dean busily flips the pancakes on the griddle. “Can you finish setting the table? I can’t leave these for too long or else they’ll get burnt.” 

Gabriel does Dean’s bidding readily, finishing setting the eat-in kitchen table as well as the island. As he’s setting out glasses he says conversationally, “Pancakes are Cassie’s favorite.” 

Dean does his best to not let tension snap his shoulders up to his ears. “Yep.” He plates a batch of completed pancakes, happy to see the blueberries aren’t bleeding too much into the batter. He carefully ladles out the next four, leaning back and ducking a little so he can check the flames under the griddle. 

“And you’re up before him,” Gabriel continues observing. The sound of him opening the fridge has Dean glancing over just in time to see him grabbing the pitcher of hand-squeezed orange juice and sporting a jaunty smile. Should have known it wouldn’t take long for him to start being… well, _him_. “Dog house?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean evades the question well enough, but now there’s definitely lines of tension in his frame as he checks the plate of foil-wrapped bacon to make sure it’s still warm. “Didn’t wanna bother him.” 

“Hmmm,” Gabriel replies musically. The sound of a stool moving lets Dean know he’s taken a seat at the island. It’s still pretty early, but Dean is surprised that Gabriel is the first one up. “Sleeping with someone new always takes getting used to.” 

Clenching his jaw, Dean shrugs. “Nothin’ to write home about.” 

“Don’t talk so lightly about my gorgeous baby bro,” Gabriel admonishes. He doesn’t actually sound angry, but he doesn’t sound patronizing, and Dean isn’t quite sure what to make of the situation. “Really am surprised you’re up before him, though. Rises with the sun and all that.” 

“I think he was up first,” Dean says, hoping he’s coming off as nonchalant as he wants to be. “But he came back to bed. Seems… exhausted.” In fact, he knows Castiel was up first. Dean had blearily opened his eyes and saw Castiel going through some yoga poses, and when he opened his eyes for the second time two hours later Castiel was snuggled up next to him once more, snoring like a chainsaw, exhaustion lines faint around his eyes and mouth.

“Ahhh,” Gabriel makes a positive noise. “Lotta responsibility on his shoulders.”

“On our shoulders,” Dean corrects, some bite in his tone. 

“Right,” Gabriel replies flippantly. “Anyway, he sleeps when he’s stressed. Sometimes his sun salutations aren’t enough to recharge his batteries, y’know?”

That slows Dean down, guilt starting to eat at him. “Should he be alone?” He had gotten up to cook breakfast so he’d stop fidgeting, but maybe he should have stayed in bed longer with Castiel. Even silent support is something.

“S’all he knows,” Gabriel sounds entirely too casual. “Not really one to talk about his feelings, y’know.”

Dean snorts. He knows. And he’s much the same way, unfortunately. Their bond has brought them closer, and they do understand each other better but words? They still don’t use those much. With this handy dandy soul bond thing they don’t really need to convey their thoughts and emotions verbally. It’s actually kinda nice for Dean, since he clams up at any mention of getting verbally touchy feely. He’s been getting better, of course - so has Castiel - but it’s a slow and difficult road to travel. 

Finishing up the pancakes, Dean plates them and quickly washes his hands. “Serve yourself. M’gonna go wake everyone else up.” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Gabriel says cheerily, already picking up the syrup as Dean leaves the kitchen. 

Rowena doesn’t answer when he knocks. She’s someone he definitely doesn’t want to bother, so he moves out towards the living room where Benny is under a pile of blankets. He gently shakes the vampire’s shoulder and sends him a small smile; Benny returns it tenfold, blue eyes glimmering as he reaches a hand to gently pat Dean’s before starting to sit up. Heading up the stairs will wield interesting results, he thinks; when he knocks on Charlie’s door she mumbles from within, which he takes as a good sign. Jack opens his door when Dean knocks and smiles brightly before passing him, dressed for the day. Sam opens his door already showered and dressed, sending Dean a small smile and clapping his shoulder as he passes. 

All that’s left is Castiel. 

“Cas?” Dean knocks gently before opening the door. The room is dark, the curtains drawn, and Castiel is burrowed under the blankets on the bed. He looks young and achingly worry-free in sleep and Dean hates to wake him up, but he has to. Today Castiel has slept in a bit later than usual. Sitting on the edge of the bed Dean reaches out and places his hand gently on the curve of Castiel’s shoulder. “Hey. Time to wake up. I made pancakes.”

The blankets shift and pull down, cerulean eyes sleepily regarding Dean. There’s a strong furrow in Castiel’s brow, his hair is all sorts of fucked up, and damn it, he looks _adorable_ , sleep-rumpled and grumpy. Dean hates him. Castiel’s long fingers bunch up the blankets briefly and it looks like he’s debating pulling them over his head, so Dean reaches out and tugs them free from his weak grasp.

“Up,” Dean commands gently. 

Huffing, Castiel wearily sits up. The blankets fall to his lap and he lifts a tattooed hand to press the heel of his palm to the his forehead, and then uses that hand to cover up a yawn, inked fingers long and spindly. “I’ll be down in a few moments.”

Satisfied, Dean makes to leave, standing up from the bed. Fingers around his wrist keep him from getting too far and he turns to see Castiel regarding him with a thoughtful expression, all the sleep erased from his features. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says softly, “for all you are doing.” 

Dean offers him a lopsided smile, “Feeding people is what I’m good at.”

“It is not all you are good at,” Castiel says. 

Dean drops his gaze. “Yeah, sure. I’m just happy to keep busy, since…” he trails off, reminded not for the first time that his business, his bread and butter, his pride and joy, currently is in a million pieces. Insurance had told him that he has the option with his payout to rebuild in the same spot, that the landlords would love to have his business there still, should he choose to start over. With this whole war thing looming over his head Dean hasn’t come to a decision, and thankfully the ‘terrorist threat’ is still fresh enough for no one to try and push him for an answer. 

He misses his cafe as if it were an amputated limb, but he soldiers on. Taking care of everyone here, like he’s been doing, is helping fill the void. 

Castiel’s fingers squeeze his wrist gently. There are no words of comfort that Dean will accept, so Castiel smartly doesn’t try. Dean sends him a small, grateful smile anyway, and then pulls away to leave Castiel to go about his morning business. 

The kitchen is lively when Dean returns. Spirits seem to be a bit higher than usual, so when Dean comes in and plates his own food, he sends a curious glance to Charlie. “What’s got everyone in a good mood?”

“Jack’s bomb,” Charlie says around a mouthful of pancakes. 

Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You figure out how to diffuse it?”

Charlie shakes her head, ponytail whipping. She takes a drink of her coffee. “Not exactly. We’ve figured out how to… rewire it, basically, so that Lucifer isn’t the one holding the trigger anymore.”

The smile on Dean’s face almost hurts, it’s so big. “Dude, that’s awesome! I mean,” he looks to Jack, who is sitting at the kitchen table next to Gabriel. “That sucks that we can’t totally get rid of it, but if Lucifer can’t blast him to bits, that means no one else will. I’m guessing you found a spell to do the rewiring?” 

“Yep,” Sam joins the conversation. He takes a seat next to Charlie, looking proud. “It’s actually surprisingly simple. Since Gabe and Cas share the same blood as Lucifer, we’ll be able to do the spell easily enough. The trigger will go to one of them. So Jack will still be a bomb, but he can’t be used against us.”

“I nominate Cassie,” Gabriel says from the table. “I don’t want that kinda responsibility.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t.” 

“You get all this figured out, Sammy?” Dean asks his brother, some pride and affection leaking into his voice. 

Sam nods, lifting his hands to start pulling up his hair into a bun. “I stayed up all night reading one of Rowena’s books. I thought Cas’s library was impressive- Rowena’s got all sorts of books that were thought to be lost or destroyed. I had to translate the whole book I was reading, but it was easy after that to find what I was looking for.” He drops his hands once his hair is tied, smiling widely.

Dean feels simultaneously more useless and proud all at once. He squashes down the negative feeling and instead reaches across the island to tap two fingers against Sam’s forehead, grinning. “That’s my brainiac brother. No problem he can’t solve.”

Sam doesn’t even try to look humbled. 

Rowena comes in to the kitchen from the back patio, leaving one of the french doors cracked behind her. She’s dressed as casually as Dean’s ever seen her; meaning, of course, she’s wearing a black silk pantsuit and her hair is done in an elegant updo. She pats Sam’s shoulder lightly as she passes him, saying, “Samuel is quite the pupil. I taught him the translation spell and he’s had his eyes glued to the books for days.” 

“Like a dog with a bone,” Dean agrees. 

Rowena fixes herself a plate of eggs and sausage, setting it aside so she can put a few slices of bread in the toaster. “So good to learn he’s not just a pretty face.” 

Gabriel snorts, “Keep your paws offa him, Red.”

Castiel enters the kitchen, looking much more awake. He sends Dean a soft smile and when he passes him on his way to the coffee maker his fingers trail lightly across the small of Dean’s back. A subtle touch, but something… significant, Dean feels. A sweet gesture. For all he and Castiel suck at talking about their emotions, and even displaying them, there are a few pleasant surprises. 

“I overhead about the spell,” Castiel says. His voice is gruff from sleep still, and he clears it as he pours his mug. “Charlie, do we have everything we need to perform it?”

“Yep!” Charlie has her phone out and is rapidly typing something with her thumb. Her ability to multitask is incredible. 

“Good,” Castiel sips on his coffee, eyes scanning each person in the room. “Rowena will perform the spell. Sam, today you and Gabriel will continue to figure out where, exactly, in Kansas we are going, and research the magic Lucifer will use to open the gates. If we can find a weak spot in the spell, that would be the ideal time to attack.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Gabriel replies lazily, giving Castiel a salute with one hand and pouring more syrup on his pancakes with the other. 

“Please clean your plates,” Castiel says. “You will all need your strength today. We are at halfway point.” 

Everyone murmurs their agreement. In another ten minutes the kitchen is empty and Dean is washing the dishes; Benny is sitting at the island, Dean having told him he’s not allowed to help clean up, but still offering his company anyway. Dean is thankful for it. In all the chaos, he and Benny haven’t had time to themselves.

“How you holdin’ up, brother?” Benny asks. 

“Doin’ fine,” Dean answers as honestly as possible without spilling his guts. He tosses a small smile over his shoulder, “Missin’ the gun range.” 

Benny laughs, warm and joyous. “Boy, I’ll bet. Me, too. I guess I miss you shootin’ at the range more than I actually miss the range. You are a true pleasure to watch.” 

Dean shrugs humbly. “Don’t think I’ll lose my edge, but I still wanna be on my game for whatever’s gonna happen, y’know?”

“You gimme a grocery list and I’ll pick up what you want, next time I’m out,” Benny suggests. “Got a recipe for witch killing bullets I bet you’d like.” 

Dean grins, rinsing the last dish and putting it in the dry rack. He grabs a dish towel to dry his hands, turning around and nodding at Benny. “Sounds good. Can’t be too prepared, right?” 

Benny’s grin is sharp. “It sure will be a first, I think, bringin’ a gun to a magic battle. These witches and warlocks think they’re above ‘em.”

Dean scoffs. “They don’t know what they’re missing. Besides, witch killing bullets? Sounds like the perfect weapon to bring. Can probably shoot a gun faster’n you can say a spell.” 

“You probably could,” Benny agrees. “You’re quick as a whip, brother.” 

At one point in his life, Dean probably would have shied away from such a violent compliment. Now, though, it bolsters him. He _is_ useful, he realizes, just in his own way. Everyone else will use their spells and magic, and Dean… well, he’s got his body and his wits, and that’s really all he’s ever needed. It feels good to know that they’ll actually be useful. Benny’s simple compliment lifts Dean’s mood much better than anything else could have. 

“What’s it gonna be like?” Dean asks. He’s been curious as hell since the first discussion of a ‘magical war’, but felt kinda stupid asking. Castiel and Gabriel grew up around all of this, and sometimes Dean worries about his questions coming off as juvenile or stupid. 

“Well,” Benny ruffles his beard thoughtfully. “Dunno, really. Hell’s gates are in a cemetery, so it’ll be pretty bleak from the get-go. Magical battles are really somethin’ to see, though. Much more physical than you think.” His eyes suddenly get solemn. “That Castiel is… an entirely different man, when he’s in battle.”

“He’s fought before?” Dean asks, surprise lacing his tone. 

“Once.” Benny nods. “A lil’ skirmish. Some asshole wizard named Bartholomew challenged Castiel’s status as a Krushnic. Ol’ Bart comes from a distant line of Krushnics and thought he was better suited to lead them.”

“What happened?” 

Benny pauses, before he says, “Well. Boss killed him.”

Dean blinks. “Simple as that?” 

“Castiel tried to give Bart an out,” Benny says. His easy demeanor is dampened by the serious look in his eyes. “Said he could forget his transgressions if Bart backed down and went back to his proper position on the totem pole. Bart wouldn’t have it.” Benny lets out a mirthless laugh. “Poor bastard barely raised his hand to attack before it all ended.”

Dean’s gut plummets. “Cas was that quick?”

“And that ruthless.” Benny nods. 

Dean lets out a short breath. “I mean, I always knew Cas was scary, so I guess this doesn’t really surprise me. S’gonna be different seeing it first hand.” Very different. Now that Dean has become acquainted with Castiel’s softer side, it’s easy to forget that the man is a powerful warlock - possibly _the_ most powerful warlock - and fall into the weird delusion that they’ll stop Lucifer by disarming him somehow.

It gives Dean chills, remembering that they’ve got to kill Lucifer in order to win. 

He thinks about the Castiel he first met; calm, cool, collected, _cold_. Yes, Castiel had pissed him off and irritated him, but Dean had also had the faintest fear of him, as well. Mob boss, warlock - it didn’t matter what Castiel was. The guy is intimidating as fuck. 

“I just got one piece of advice for you, brother,” Benny says, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. When their gazes meet, Benny’s eyes are still serious, all amusement gone from his features as he stands up. “Whatever happens on the battlefield… he’s still your Castiel. Still our Castiel.” 

Dean frowns a little. “What does that mean?”

Benny shakes his head. “Just keep it in mind.” He doesn’t elaborate any further, leaving Dean alone in the kitchen. 

Ruffling his hair in frustration, Dean drums his fingers on the counter idly as he stares out the french doors. The sky is blue, the foliage is lush, and the world has no idea that it’s so close to the end. 

Six days to go.

\--

The preparations for battle have been surprisingly mundane. They brush up on spells, they all ward themselves against Lucifer and any sort of dark magic, they figure out exactly where Lucifer is going to be and when, and they just sort of hang out with an undercurrent of anticipation thrumming through the air. Dean makes the witch killing bullets with Benny’s recipe and tests out how he can bring his guns - double shoulder holster, hip holster, thigh holder, the arrangement weight and balanced carefully so it doesn’t slow him down or hinder him.

It’s the night before they leave. They had all debated on just how they would get to Kansas; flying was out of the question since they needed weapons, and if they drove it would take too long. So Castiel had suggested a mass apparate, and everyone winced, but agreed. Rowena, Gabriel, and Castiel were more than powerful enough to transport them all at the same time, and it won’t tax too much of their magic energy. With that settled, everyone went to bed with quiet goodnights, the mood sobering with the impending battle on the horizon. 

Dean can’t sleep. 

Instead of tossing and turning and bothering Castiel, whom he’s pretty sure puts a sleeping spell on himself because there’s no way the guy can sleep so _soundly_ with what lies ahead, Dean gets up. He debates on what to do; he could go downstairs and watch a movie, he could fix himself a snack, he could clean the house for the millionth time. But all of those activities have the potential of waking up his housemates, and Dean would hate himself if he interrupted any of them. Even Benny is sleeping, which is both kinda weird and kinda cute at the same time. 

Dean moves towards the ensuite bathroom before realizing what he’s doing. Shutting the door behind him he looks at that big claw-footed bathtub, smiling to himself. Here we go. 

He knows this bathroom well, by now, but he’s yet to take a bath. He turns on the faucet, running his fingers under the stream to gauge the temperature before settling on slightly-hotter-than-comfortable. The floating shelves are packed with all sorts of bath goodies and Dean stares at them all for a moment, and then notices that they’re labeled. Reaching out, Dean starts reading each container, blinking in surprise to see that they’re loaded with magic.

There’s a jar to ease aches and pains. There’s a jar to promote a calm mind. There’s a jar that says it helps with astral projection, and Dean puts that one down quickly. Another jar says it boosts physical immunity. One simply says “In case of transfiguration, use half of the contents”. There’s an aphrodisiac jar and Dean doesn’t know if he’s grateful or sympathetic about the fact that it’s dusty from never being touched or used. 

Deciding on aches and pains and calm mind, Dean sprinkles the salts into the water. He finds a store bought bottle of bubbles and adds that to the running water, and when the bath is about half full he starts to strip. He catches sight of himself in the large vanity mirror, eyes drawn to the marks on his body. Castiel’s fingerprints span across his chest, his handprint on the curve of his shoulder. Dean gently traces his own fingers over the marks and then takes in the rest of his body; he’s never been _Men’s Health_ status, never been inspired to be that committed, but his body has changed greatly. He’s no longer soft in the middle, his belly having hardened into actual abs. His arms and his chest are thicker, his thighs strong, and he’s just solid all around. The training with Benny has done nothing but benefit him. 

The marks stand out starkly against his freckled skin and perhaps a year ago, he would have hated them. No- he definitely would have. He would have accused Castiel of branding him to own him, enslave him - would have had nothing nice to say. Because his relationship with Castiel a year ago was tumultuous at best, and Dean wouldn’t have taken kindly to anything like this. Castiel had brought up getting a tattoo to signify his connection with his mafia exactly once, and the stink Dean raised had clearly inspired Castiel to drop that train of thought. 

Now, though, the marks are significant. Meaningful. More than just a mark of ownership - knowing that Castiel bears the same handprint on his skin cements the solidarity. 

It’s not an ownership. It’s a partnership. 

Dean reaches to the faucet of the tub to stop the water. He gingerly lowers himself into the steaming water, arms on the ledge of the tub as he leans back against the angled curve. He fits perfectly even with his legs stretched out. The textured bottom and curve of the tub keep him from slip-sliding around and he sinks in as deep as he can go with his elbows still on the ledge, eyes closing. He inhales deeply, eucalyptus and lavender spiraling through his senses. True to the labels he feels all of his aches and pains disappear as his mind goes from static to smooth.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles. Opening his eyes, Dean turns his attention to the bathroom door, wondering why he’s suddenly looking over there.

A soft knock sounds. 

Blinking in surprise, Dean calls out quietly, “Come in.” 

The door opens and Castiel is rubbing his eyes, sleep clothes wrinkled and his hair flattened on one side of his head. He takes in the scene of Dean relaxing in the tub and smiles softly, clearly unbothered about the fact he’s walking in on this. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” Dean says a bit dumbly. 

Castiel steps further into the bathroom, the door clicking shut gently behind him to prevent any steam from escaping. He grabs a stool from the vanity and places it next to the bathtub, taking a seat on it and staring up at the many jars displayed on the shelves. Despite their… intimate encounter, Dean is thankful that the bathwater is milky enough to be opaque. Castiel doesn’t say anything; he looks over the labels of the jars thoughtfully, and then glances down towards Dean. 

“In every magical thing I create, a part of me exists within,” Castiel says. Dean blinks stupidly. Castiel gestures towards the bath, “You’ve used some of my bath crystals. My magic alerted me that they were alleviating a tired soul.”

“Oh,” Dean flushes a bit, glancing down at the water. “That’s… uh, kinda weird.” 

The smile on Castiel’s lips is sleepy, but serene. “I do not think so. You are using my magic to comfort yourself, and in turn, the use strengthens me.”

“Me using your magic strengthens you?” Dean looks up at him. “That don’t seem right. Shouldn’t it drain you?”

Castiel shakes his head. “It does not drain me much to make these magical things. My magic benefits greatly when used for true, uninhibited good. A relaxing bath is the purest use of my magic, and the rebound it gives me is also pure. A clean boost.”

“It woke you up, huh?” Dean muses. Elbow still on the ledge, he drops his hand to lightly trail his fingers over the surface of the water, watching the milky white film swirl. 

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, “but I do not mind.” 

They sit in silence for a while. Castiel’s presence shifts from slightly embarrassing to comforting, and Dean slips his arms into the water as he reclines better, closing his eyes. The water lapping at his skin feels good, but there’s also a slight charge under the surface where it meets his body. Not quite a shock, but now that Castiel has mentioned that his magic is infused in the crystals, Dean knows it’s the gentle prodding of magic seeping into his pores and doing what it was intended to do: ease aches and pains. The steam floating into his nostrils also acts as a pleasant drug, keeping his mind calm and clear. He thinks the steam is probably helping Castiel, too. 

After an indeterminable amount of time, Dean’s eyes open. Castiel is still on the stool but he’s acquired a book and is quietly reading. Surprised that the water is still warm, Dean shifts so he can sit up properly. He cups the water in his hands and brings it up to his face, feeling the silky glide of it as he gives a gentle scrub. The noise attracts Castiel’s attention and he gets off of his stool, closing his book and setting it on the vanity counter. Dean washes his face for a few moments, luxuriating in the fact that any throb in his head is, literally, magically wiped away. He blinks wet lashes open and turns to see Castiel holding open a fluffy towel and can’t help the little smile that pulls at his lips. 

Castiel politely turns his gaze away as Dean stands. He pulls the plug and then grabs the towel from Castiel, making sure his face and hair are dry first before stepping out of the tub. The bath mat is soft and plush under his toes and he quickly dries the rest of his body off, wrapping the towel around his waist and tucking it into itself. Castiel times his turn around perfectly, and when his gaze sweeps over Dean, he feels an answering thrum in his veins. 

“Let us get to bed,” Castiel says, his tone almost regretful. “We need our strength.” 

Dean does his best to not feel disappointed. But it’s for the best that they go straight to sleep; that ultra relaxing bath has done wonders and Dean knows he’ll fall asleep the second his head hits the pillow. Out in the bedroom he pulls on a pair of pajama pants while Castiel gets comfortable in bed, and then he shuts off the lamp as he joins him. Under the covers they come to an unspoken agreement, reaching for each other at the same time. Drawing near, Castiel tucks his head under Dean’s chin, arms tight around Dean’s waist. Pressing his cheek to the other man’s forehead, Dean closes his eyes and feels comfort and exhaustion overtaking him. 

Tomorrow is the beginning of the end. 

Dean thinks about Benny’s words. 

No matter what happens… this is Castiel.

This is his Castiel.

\--

The mood the following morning is somber. Everyone wakes up with their own alarms and Dean fixes them breakfast; lots of protein, but still on the light side. Gabriel had warned him that apparating can sometimes cause nausea and the last thing Dean wants is for anyone to lose their breakfast. Coffee all around, though not too much caffeine - no one wants to be jittery. Everyone is dressed for practicality; even Rowena is wearing jeans and a shirt, though she has an emerald cape draped over her shoulders and fastened with a sapphire brooch. No one really says anything except to confirm that they have everything they need. They go over their roles one more time, even though they had all memorized them immediately. 

Gabriel and Sam will be backup to Castiel and Dean. Rowena will be backup’s backup. Charlie has learned healing spells and will be working with Jack to create a barrier around the battle site to shield them from any wandering mortals, and help them heal if and when they get injured. Benny is there as muscle. 

Laid out like that, it’s pretty cut and dry. Dean’s no fool, though- none of them are. Something will, probably, go wrong. But they’re as prepared as they’re gonna get, and they all gather in Castiel’s backyard in a circle, holding hands. Castiel leads them through some breathing exercises and mutters a few protection spells, upping the wards imbued in their cores. They all stand quiet, eyes closed, and when Castiel’s chanting tapers off, all of them open their eyes and look at each other. 

“Welp,” Gabriel speaks first, his tone a forced casual. He’s standing between Castiel and Sam. “This is it. I’d, uh, wish us all luck, but I think we’re well past that now.” 

“Wise words,” Castiel says dryly. “You are very inspirational.”

“Well, he’s got a point,” Charlie says.

Next to Charlie, Rowena rolls her eyes. “Aye, you softies with your pep talks.”

Jack swings Dean’s hand idly, “If we all die today, I’m happy to die with you.”

Everyone stares at Jack blankly, but Dean squeezes his hand gently. “Same, buddy.”

“Man, that’s bleak,” Charlie says mournfully. 

“We will do our best to stick to the plan,” Castiel says, addressing everyone. “I cannot guarantee our chances at winning, or survival, but if we even manage to put a chip in Lucifer’s plan, we will have succeeded in something.”

“Dent,” Dean corrects with a sad smile. 

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand, blue eyes meeting green for a brief moment before he turns his attention towards everyone once more. “Ready?” 

“As we’ll ever be,” Gabriel says seriously. Next to him Sam nods, and everyone else follows suit. 

“Close your eyes,” Castiel instructs. 

They do. 

“Breathe deep.”

They do.

“Hold on.” 

They do.

They vanish with a crack of lightning, the backyard of Castiel’s beautiful colonial home empty and peaceful. Birds chirp from the trees, a gentle breeze ruffles the rose bushes, and a single cloud passes over the morning sun. 

Fifteen-hundred miles away, Lucifer waits.

\--

Stull cemetery is, indeed, a bleak place. There’s no definitive property lines, gravestones and statues erected almost at random across its expanse, the green grass mowed neatly and left wild where it’s brown. A roofless brick building stands eerily against the backdrop of the dawn sky. They land on a patch of grass with no gravestones nearby and once they steady their footing, everyone is casting furtive glances around. They’re out in the open, as they knew they would be, but it’s still an unsettling feeling. 

“He’s here,” Castiel says lowly. 

Dean tenses his jaw. He touches each of his holsters, every gun his fingers come into contact with grounding him. His pockets are laden with extra ammo, the ankle of his left boot stiff where he’s hidden a blade - a blade that Benny told him can kill virtually any monster. The cemetery is quiet, as most cemeteries are, but there’s a charge in the air Dean can almost _taste_. It’s acrid. He resists the urge to scrunch up his nose as he inhales.

“Charlie, Jack,” Castiel says, “set up the perimeter. Make sure no mortals are inside the sphere.” 

Charlie and Jack take each other’s hands and trot away on quiet feet. 

“Rowena,” Castiel addresses the witch, who straightens to attention, “locate Lucifer.”

She smiles wickedly, holding her left palm out in front of her. A strange glowing, violet ball appears in her hand. “Already on it, dearie. He’s at the gate.”

Castiel nods, then turns his attention to Dean, Benny, Sam, and Gabriel. “Stay close. Dean and I will go ahead first. Do _not_ engage Lucifer.”

“Still think you can have a heart to heart and talk him out of it?” Gabriel asks. How he can find the energy to joke in this situation doesn’t surprise Dean, but it still manages to fall a little flat. 

“No,” Castiel says, his eyes turned out towards the gravestones dotting the horizon. “But we will be at a tactical disadvantage if we attack first. We do not know if he is here alone or if he has brought backup.”

“Right,” Sam says, “and if we can catch him before he starts the spell we have a better chance of getting things under control.” 

Dean bounces his weight from foot to foot. Next to him, Benny claps him on the shoulder. “Remember, brother. You’re more useful alive than dead, so hang back and let the warlocks go first. Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

Dean rolls his eyes a little and then grins, flexing his fingers. “Me? Do somethin’ stupid? Naw.”

Castiel doesn’t look convinced by Dean’s words, but he doesn’t comment on them. They instead start making their way through the cemetery, heading towards wherever Rowena’s little magic ball leads them. The cemetery is huge and their trek is slow and careful. Lucifer probably already knows they’re here, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. After ten minutes of traversing they pause in a grove of trees, thankful for the cover. Peering out towards the cemetery it’s, at first, not clear if Lucifer is nearby. Then a faint red glow rises from beyond the gravestones and Castiel’s jaw hardens, eyes going dark and intense. 

“That’s him,” he says quietly. 

Dean swallows. 

“He is starting the spell to open the gates,” Castiel continues. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to expose the tattoos on his forearms, the ink glowing a pale blue. The sigils seem to pulse in time with his heartbeat, and Dean watches in fascination as his veins bulge and the muscles twitch where his magic is gathering. “Charlie and Jack need five more minutes to complete the sphere.”

“Do we have that long to wait?” Dean asks. 

Castiel doesn’t answer. 

Five minutes pass in silence. The faint red glow of Lucifer’s magic doesn’t intensify, nor does it wane, and they watch it carefully while they wait. Castiel relaxes minutely and announces that Charlie and Jack have successfully closed off the cemetery and then he straightens, rolling his shoulders. 

“I’m going in.” 

Dean wants to protest. Castiel shouldn’t go up against Lucifer alone, but then again, it’s not like the rest of them will be able to match him in power. Castiel has already decided that he would go ahead, and though he’s not planning to have a heart to heart with Lucifer, it’s a crucial part of the plan to get Lucifer’s attention focused solely on Castiel while everyone else sets up. 

Dean watches Castiel go. The sun is just barely starting to rise, the golden glow setting Castiel’s wild hair ablaze. It takes everything he has to not follow. Sam’s hand on his shoulder is heavy, keeping him grounded. Castiel disappears over a hill and Dean curses under his breath, shrugging off Sam’s hand and pacing a few times. Charlie and Jack return, breathless from running. After a few minutes of nothing happening, Dean grows more antsy. The red glow hasn’t faded, and he hates that he can’t see Castiel. He can sense him, though- Castiel is still calm, no signs of stress in his aura. 

Castiel has always been an exceptional deceiver. 

“I’m goin’ in,” Dean says through clenched teeth.

“Dean, wait-” Sam reaches out for him, but Dean dodges. “You can’t go!”

“I just gotta be able to see him,” Dean explains. He levels Sam’s gaze with his own. “I can’t be away from him.” 

He knows Sam understands when Sam casts a glance towards Gabriel, who is watching quietly and without protest. Sam’s shoulders tense a little and he returns his gaze towards Dean, nodding tightly. “Be safe. Signal us when… well, when things to go shit.”

Dean smiles wanly. “You bet.” 

He leaves the grove of trees, following the path Castiel took. The terrain is uneven, and he feels bad for stepping on plots, but he’s got to get to Castiel and he can’t spend time dodging graves. He feels an odd sense of calm in the cemetery, almost like it’s a familiar place, and he holds onto that sensation as he makes his way towards where Castiel is. He finds Castiel lurking behind a building, head craned around the corner to no doubt watch Lucifer from the shadows. He senses Dean approach and turns to him with a glare, clearly displeased that Dean followed, but not exactly unsurprised. Dean sends him what he thinks is a charming smile and Castiel rolls his eyes, gesturing for him to hurry up. 

Standing next to Castiel against the building Dean also chances a glance around the corner. There’s Lucifer, the older version of the one that Dean had witnessed threatening his dad fifty years ago, holding his hands out towards an unassuming hill. His whole body is glowing red and he’s chanting under his breath. Goosebumps break out on Dean’s skin and he lets out a shaky exhale, pulling away and drawing his Colt from his left shoulder holster. He checks to make sure it’s loaded, cocks it as quietly as possible, and then meets Castiel’s gaze. The black magic Lucifer uses does its best to try and clog his airways, and he takes in a few breaths to expel it slowly.

 _Stay here_ , Castiel mouths to him. 

Dean nods. Now that he can see Castiel, he feels much more at ease. Being apart from him in a dangerous situation was threatening to make him puke. Why does magic always make him feel so nauseous? Castiel pulls away and leaves the safety of the shadows, approaching Lucifer. Dean leans against the building and closes his eyes, both hands on his gun and lowered, straining his ears to listen. 

“Lucifer.” Castiel’s voice is commanding, strong.

There’s a beat of silence, and then the red light finally fades. The barely-there rays of the sun are bathing the cemetery in a dusky purple, and Dean knows he won’t be in the shadows for long.

“Castiel!” A falsely jovial voice replies. It grates on Dean’s nerves, same as it did in the astral projection. “What a surprise.” A beat. “ _Not_.” 

“You cannot open the gates of Hell,” Castiel continues, his voice still firm. “I will not allow it.”

Lucifer’s laughter is manic and high-pitched, before he replies, “That’s really cute, Cassie. _Really_ cute. You and your crowd of misfits aren’t gonna stop me. I mean- you’re welcome to try, of course! They say you gotta feed the beast to tame it, and I’m pretty sure Satan wouldn’t say no to having a big breakfast once he comes topside.” 

“I will not help you,” Castiel says. 

“Maybe not _willingly_ ,” Lucifer says indulgently. “But you’re gonna help me, Cassie. One way or another.” 

Dean leans around to chance a peek. Lucifer is now facing Castiel, and he really doesn’t look that scary when Dean takes him in. Not like super powerful warlock scary- though he does look pretty unhinged. Like a regular, albeit sociopathic dude. He’s got the same glint in his eyes that he did fifty years ago.

“Jack is no longer your weapon,” Castiel says. His voice is carrying, projecting strongly and firmly. Not quite yelling, but speaking with authority. Dean can feel the pulses of his magic through his voice. 

Lucifer looks genuinely surprised at that. “No?” He pouts. “I was really looking forward to seeing your face when I blew him to smithereens.” Sighing dramatically, Lucifer flops his hands at his sides. “You really know how to take the fun out of a party, don’t you? See, this is why I don’t invite you to my birthday parties.”

“I will give you one chance to back down,” Castiel says, his voice turning murderously low. “Do it now, Lucifer.”

The grin on Lucifer’s face sends chills down Dean’s spine. He lifts his hand, fingers poised to snap, and says, “Mmmmm… no thanks.” 

When he snaps his fingers, chaos descends. The ground rumbles beneath Dean’s feet and starts to break open in long, splitting cracks. Startled, Dean jumps away from the now shaking building in case it collapses, not wanting to be caught under the rubble. From the seams in the earth, black smoke comes pouring out in various spots, and for a second, Dean thinks that Lucifer is just going to kill them by asphyxiation. But the black smoke curls upwards towards the sky and then comes barreling back down to the ground, shooting into graves all over the cemetery with deafening booms. The scent of sulphur and brimstone makes his eyes water, his arm lifting so he can bury his nose in the crook of his elbow to try and protect his senses.

And then, Dean watches in horror as the sod under his feet breaks and hands shoot out of the ground like some terrible B movie, the accompanying moans and groans the soundtrack of Dean’s eight-year-old nightmares. 

“Dean!” Castiel yells. Dean whips around to see him waving frantically, “Demons!”

“Oh, shit,” Dean replies.

Reanimated corpses in various stages of decay sprout up from the ground like weeds. Dean knows his witch killing bullets won’t work on them so he holsters his gun and draws the blade from his boot instead, torn between running to Castiel’s side and going back towards where everyone else is hiding in the trees. That moment of hesitation proves to be his downfall, though, because a demon climbs on his back and grabs his jaw on either side, no doubt going for the kill.

Reaching up, Dean grabs the demon by its biceps, bending so he can throw it over his head. He gets the demon on the ground and then drives his knife into its chest, watching its black eyes widen in surprise before they glow yellow and burn out, black smoke sizzling out of the wound before dissipating. 

Dean stares at the knife in disbelief, and then grins to himself.

“Awesome.”

Fight or flight mode kicks in before the next demon jumps him. Fueled by adrenaline Dean takes it out and manages to handle the next three that flank him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the red of Lucifer’s magic meshing with the blue of Castiel’s, spikes of their energies crackling through the air like lightning. With Dean distracted like this he can’t lend proper assistance to Castiel and that, frankly, pisses him off. 

After a few more minutes of fighting Benny joins Dean, a wicked smile on his features as they set up to double team the zombie demons. Off in the distance are flashes of Gabriel’s orange magic and Rowena’s violet magic and Dean knows they can take care of themselves, so he stays focused. These zombie demons aren’t terribly difficult to kill, but they’re persistent as hell and annoying as fuck. Together Dean and Benny mow through the masses, steadily making their way towards where Lucifer and Castiel are. 

Still unable to see much, Dean steps on a demon’s throat and then drives the blade into its skull. Benny looks like he’s got a handle on things so Dean charges towards where Castiel is, rounding the corner of the building and stopping dead in his tracks. Bloodied and battered, Castiel is kneeling in front of Lucifer, who has one palm on Castiel’s forehead, the other palm extended towards the hillside again. Dean can feel more than see that Lucifer is sucking Castiel’s power right out of him, and through the red and blue haze of magic Dean sees the hillside change, a gaping chasm opening up, iron bars blocking anything from going in or out of it.

Castiel’s pained yell snaps Dean into action. Without really thinking of the consequences Dean charges forward and physically barrels into Lucifer, knocking him to the ground. The light of their magic disappears but the gate in the hillside is still very real, an echoing chasm emitting the faintest bit of heat. Dean and Lucifer hit the ground with a surprised noise and a pained grunt, and before Dean knows it there’s a palm closing around his neck, lifting him up as Lucifer stands, the knife clattering to the ground. The rage in his blue eyes is unadulterated, his face screwed up in annoyance and anger. Struggling to breathe Dean holds onto Lucifer’s wrist, doing his best not to squirm too much. 

From behind the gate there’s a loud rumble, a blast of heat exploding from it like a beast is inside, exhaling impatiently. The iron bars rattle but don’t give and Dean closes his eyes, feeling his windpipe slowly crushing.

“ _Winchester_ ,” Lucifer snarls. With great strength he throws Dean onto the dusty ground and then kicks him in the ribs, Dean letting out a pained gasp. “Heroism must be a genetic trait.”

Dean, from where he’s curled up on the ground in pain, manages to smirk up at Lucifer with teeth. “M’told it’s charmin’.” 

Lucifer winds up his foot for another kick but gets knocked off his feet by an explosion of blue smacking directly into his chest. Castiel is by Dean’s side immediately, hauling him up, a hand on Dean’s chest infusing magic into his body to heal him up from his injuries. On his own two feet Dean drops into a defensive stance, and then blinks in surprise when Castiel places himself between him and Lucifer.

Standing up on shakier legs, Lucifer smacks himself in the chest. A surge of power rolls through his body, his eyes glowing red for the briefest of moments, and he sends Castiel an ugly look. “You think just because you have your bonded you’ll be able to defeat me?” 

“I don’t have to defeat you,” Castiel says. “I just have to stop you.” 

Lucifer lets out a bark of laughter. “Then let’s do this, mano-a-mano.” 

Lucifer’s hand lifts again and he snaps his fingers - Dean blinks and then he’s out in the cemetery in the thick of things, Rowena blasting away zombie demons while Gabriel and Sam use knives similar to his own. They look startled to see him appear so suddenly but the surprise can’t last long, another wave of monsters rising up for a fight. Dean’s too far from Castiel to make it back in good time and he hates that, but he can feel the tug of Castiel’s magic on his soul and he has the barest bit of relief, knowing that the distance isn’t going to affect how Castiel can draw from him. It grates on him that Lucifer separated them, and Lucifer is probably banking on Dean getting frustrated in the hopes that he’ll mess something up.

The battle goes on. Zombie demons fall left and right, but the wear and tear of the longevity of the battle is clearly wearing on them. The sun rises, the protective sphere Charlie and Jack had placed around the cemetery dulling it a little. Dean’s sweating profusely anyway. The zombie demons won’t stop coming. Charlie is protected by Jack as she chants out healing spells, keeping Dean, Rowena, Gabriel and Sam from tiring too quickly, but it’s definitely taking a toll on her. Dean doesn’t know how long they fight, but he eventually notes that Castiel’s magic has stopped tugging on him.

Frowning, he turns around just in time to see a massive explosion of red light from the hillside where Lucifer summoned the gate. The ricochet of the blast knocks everyone off of their feet, monsters included, and fear grips Dean tight. He scrambles up and starts running towards ground zero, a new determination in the way his fingers snap with sparking green flames as he takes out any monsters that try to get in his way with an explosion of magic, fear and frustration giving him a boost. He knows everyone else is following him as he carves a path, and he keeps his panic at bay as they get closer to the gate - closer to Castiel - doing his best to stay strong. 

Castiel is lying on the ground covered in blood and dust. 

Lucifer is panting over him, clearly drained, and he looks up with wild pleasure to see everyone approaching. Throwing his hands up, Lucifer yells out, “So glad you could make it! Front row seats to the apocalypse. Isn’t this _special_?” 

Dean is frozen to the spot, eyes glued to Castiel. He can sense his magic, knows he’s still alive, but seeing him look that broken is… 

“I don’t think so, Lucy,” Gabriel says as he steps forward. He lifts a hand, fingers glowing. Sam is right by his side, tall and imposing. 

Lucifer sends Gabriel an amused glance. “Honestly, I’m surprised to see you here, brother. I would have thought you’d be somewhere in a different country with your tail tucked comfortably between your legs.” 

“Well unfortunately the whole ‘apocalypse’ thing is gonna mess up the whole world, so,” Gabriel says with a shrug. 

Rowena steps up next to Gabriel. There’s a tremble in her fingers as she raises her hand as well. “We’ll not have you completing this spell, Lucifer.” By some miracle, her voice doesn’t shake.

Lucifer sends them an intrigued glance, and then looks down at where Castiel lie. “Huh. I dunno, according to the _Almighty_ magic I’ve just drained out of my sweet little cousin I’ve got everything I need to open the gates, so…” he shrugs, voice musical. “I think I’m gonna do it. All these souls I’ve been harboring have just been _magnificent_.” Lucifer’s gaze slides towards Dean. “Don’t even _need_ your daddy, anymore.” 

Everything happens in slow motion. Still rooted to the spot Dean watches as Gabriel and Rowena charge Lucifer. Neither of them land a blow, and Lucifer sends them flying with a wave of his red hand. Sam stiffens and Lucifer sends him an appraising look before flicking his wrist, Sam suddenly drawn towards him by an invisible force, toes skimming across the dirt as Lucifer brings him to his side. 

Alarms go off in Dean’s head. 

“Y’know,” Lucifer says casually to Dean, “I couldn’t get your daddy to bond with me, but any ol’ Winchester’ll do.”

Sam struggles against his invisible bonds. “I don’t consent!”

Lucifer laughs. “You think at this point I need your _consent_?”

Sam pales. Dean feels his gut drop. 

“Wait-!” Dean steps forward. 

Lucifer sends Dean a bored look. 

“Take me,” Dean says. “I’m stronger.” 

Lucifer’s expression transforms from bored to intrigued. “Oh? You’re volunteering as tribute?”

Dean clenches his fists at his sides. “Take me instead.” His brain briefly flashes back to that abandoned warehouse and Benny beating him boneless in Sam’s stead, and is very aware of what he’s about to do, again.

Sam drops to the ground coughing and spluttering, and Lucifer turns contemplative. He folds an arm over his chest and rubs his chin idly with his other hand, gaze appraising Dean thoughtfully. Dean feels disgusting with those red eyes on him, but he lets it happen, jaw set and stance firm. After a few moments Lucifer flicks his wrist and Sam gets catapulted away to wherever Gabriel and Rowena are- Dean spares a thought hoping Sam isn’t too hurt, and then he straightens his posture. 

“Very interesting,” Lucifer hums. “I assume that in order to get your consent, which - by the way - _does_ lend me greater power - you have some conditions, hm?” 

“Everyone else goes free,” Dean says without a second thought. Always negotiating. Just like when he thought Sam was in trouble with the mafia, this sacrifice makes sense. Means something. “I will give you my consent if you let everyone go. Alive.” 

Lucifer laughs. “No.” 

Dean clenches his fists, heartbeat thumping wildly in his ribs. He pulls his Colt from its holder and sees Lucifer arch a curious brow - but then the man’s expression turns mildly concerned when Dean holds the barrel of the gun up to his own temple. The chill of the metal races down Dean’s spine. “Take me with my consent, let them go, or I will kill myself and you’ll lose out on the most powerful hunter currently in rotation.”

A few seconds of silence pass before Lucifer says, “You’ve got balls, Dean. But what would stop me from taking your brother?”

“He ain’t as strong as me. I’m the first born.” Dean says after racking his brain. And it’s the truth. He remembers that meadow, fifty years ago. “He’d die if black magic touched him. I won’t.” Even if Dean is fuzzy on important details, and even if he’s sure he’s betting on his lowest cards, he just has to make Lucifer believe it.

Apparently Lucifer buys it, because his eyes rove over Dean’s body again. He looks at Castiel’s prone body and then he lets out a huge sigh, shrugging his shoulders. “I’d say you drive a hard bargain, but this is actually a pretty easy decision. Put the gun down, and I’ll send everyone away.” Dean glares. Lucifer adds, “Alive.” 

Cautiously, Dean puts the Colt back in its holster, but leaves it cocked. Lucifer holds up a hand and then snaps his fingers; Dean feels the magic signatures of Rowena and Gabriel and Sam disappear, and breathes a sigh of relief. He can’t sense Charlie or Jack so he assumes they’ve been teleported back to safety or whatever, but he sees Castiel still lying on the ground and he tenses his jaw. 

“Cas, too.” 

Lucifer shakes his head. “I need him for the spell, my man. But once it’s all said and done I’ll happily send him off, too. Probably on a remote island somewhere, zapped of his powers, but safe.”

Dean doesn’t like that, but he can’t argue, not if Castiel is going to be alive. Swallowing thickly, Dean takes a step forward. He looks down at Castiel’s features and feels his heart ache. He’s bought as much time as he could.

They lose. So, they lose.

Squaring his shoulders, Dean faces Lucifer and lifts his chin slightly. “Do it.” In his peripheral his senses catch a hint of magic, and Dean feels his heart flip in his chest.

Jack.

Jack is hiding behind the building, still here, still alive, still full of magic. The signature is faint and blends with Castiel’s, so Lucifer probably can’t sense him, but Dean has spent enough time around them to be able to tell them apart. Keeping his gaze on Lucifer, Dean takes another step forward, putting himself between Castiel and the other man. 

He senses Castiel’s life force spike minutely. 

“Take me,” Dean repeats his earlier words. He spreads his hands out, offering himself to Lucifer. 

All in.

Lucifer’s gaze sweeps over him clinically, likely assessing the power within him, and then his mouth twists in a smirk. “What a turn of events. Loyalty truly is only skin deep. Either that, or you’re intensely stupid.” 

Dean can’t help the self-deprecating smile that filters over his features, “Definitely stupid.” 

Lucifer reaches out towards Dean, putting his hands on the curve of his shoulders. Castiel’s handprint pulses in distaste in reaction and Dean winces slightly. Lucifer doesn’t notice, his eyes closing as he starts to chant. Dean feels his black magic starting to seep into his body, warring with Castiel’s; an ugly sensation, tainted power that makes Dean’s insides squirm and bile rise in his throat. He closes his eyes, too, sending out a silent apology to Castiel. This isn’t at all how he wanted this to turn out, but Lucifer had been too powerful. And Dean’s too selfish to let his friends die, too stubborn to let the responsibility fall on anyone else’s shoulders, so he opens up his mind to Lucifer’s magic, a strangled cry leaving his throat as the toxicity washes through him. 

The sound of a blade slicing flesh makes his eyes snap open. Lucifer’s too. They both turn their heads to see Jack kneeling next to Castiel, a blade in Castiel’s hand as he finishes shakily carving a sigil to his bare chest, his shirt ripped to shreds. Lucifer’s grip tightens so hard on Dean’s shoulders Dean’s knees go weak and another anguished groan leaves him, but then he grabs onto Lucifer’s wrists, chanting a spell on the fly. It makes Lucifer’s hands stick to Dean’s shoulders like fly paper, and Lucifer snaps his alarmed gaze towards Dean. 

“What are you doing?!” Lucifer bellows. “You gave yourself to me!” 

“No,” Dean says, pain from Lucifer’s magic ripping through him blurring his vision. He offers a grin, finding sick delight in the way Lucifer’s expression turns panicked. He pulls his Colt from his shoulder holster, lifting it up to press it into the soft spot under Lucifer’s chin. “We don’t have to defeat you. We just gotta stop you.” 

Castiel yells out a spell and Dean glances over just in time to see Jack close his eyes, sigils on his body glowing brighter than the noon sun. The blood sigil on Castiel’s chest bursts with light, and Dean’s brain finally catches up - blood spell, blood sigil, the bomb inside of Jack, Bobby banishing Lucifer fifty years ago - and then Castiel catches Dean’s eyes, looking more sorrowful than ever. 

Dean opens his mouth to tell Castiel to stop, but then Castiel closes his eyes and slaps his hand over the blood sigil. Light explodes around them, _everything_ explodes around them. Lucifer’s hands disintegrate off of Dean’s shoulders as white engulfs Dean’s vision, the sound of the blast nearly rupturing his eardrums, his finger reflexively pulling the trigger of his gun. For a minute Dean can’t feel anything - he can’t feel pain, he can’t feel his body, he can’t feel _anything_... And then it all comes barreling back into him in startling clarity. 

He’s on his back on the grass in Castiel’s backyard, staring up at the blue, blue sky. Gasping for breath he sits up and pats himself down, making sure he’s truly in one piece. Trembling violently, his ears ringing, Dean looks around frantically. 

No Castiel.

No Jack.

“Dean!” Sam comes running out of the house, nearly tripping down the steps as he collapses next to Dean and tackles him back down to the ground. He pulls back and checks over Dean with his eyes and hands, eyes wet with tears and fingers shaking. “Are you hurt? Are you ok? What happened?” 

Dean lies on his back, staring up at the blue sky. The last thing he remembers is the blood sigil on Castiel’s chest and Jack’s serene expression as he closed his eyes, accepting his fate as the bomb detonated. He blinks and feels a hot tear track down his cheek. He inhales a deep breath, and then immediately rolls over to empty his stomach into the soft grass. Retching and heaving, he’s distantly aware of Sam’s hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, and when Dean’s just dripping saliva onto the grass he sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Dean?” Gabriel’s voice sounds like he’s speaking from inside an aquarium. “Dean, where’s Castiel?”

“Where’s Jack?” Sam asks. 

Dean looks up at both of them, numbness settling into every fiber of his being. 

“Cas was the trigger,” Dean says, his voice void of emotion. There’s cotton in his ears and mouth. His words don’t sound like his own. “Cas pulled the trigger.” 

Silence settles over everyone, Rowena, Charlie and Benny up on the porch listening furtively. Charlie gasps and covers her mouth with her hands and Rowena turns away, blinking fiercely. Benny’s shoulders droop, his eyes closing. Gabriel drops to his knees next to Sam, speechless.

The birds chirp brightly in the trees. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky. 

The apocalypse has been averted. 

The war is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **important warning:** (temporary) main character death  
> 


	18. Solnyshka

Dean doesn’t leave Castiel’s room for three days.

In here it smells like him, and the last fading remnants of his magic are comforting in a way that, late at night when Dean is curled up in the bed, he can imagine that Castiel is there with him. It’s safe, it’s quiet, and no one bothers him. He comes out at night when everyone else is sleeping so he can eat, but he stays scarce during the day. He knows that the lavender and patchouli scent will fade, knows that Castiel’s magic will disperse and disappear, and he wants to cling onto it for as long as possible. He catches sleep in catnaps, the nightmares too frequent to offer him any sort of real rest.

Nightmares about that bloody sigil carved into Castiel’s flesh, about that last, melancholy look in blue eyes. 

Castiel had used the last of his magic to transport Dean to safety before he blew a crater into the Earth. 

The media has been all over the cemetery. The very day of the battle, after everything was over and Dean had stumbled inside, Rowena turned on the television. The magical sphere kept anything outside of the cemetery from being damaged. The blast was felt for miles. The hole it left behind had everyone scratching their heads. Freak meteor strike, someone had suggested. Dean couldn’t watch any longer, unwilling to listen to debates over what happened when he knew exactly what went down. 

What’s more is that all the missing husbands that Castiel had promised to return all appeared on their own doorstep with seemingly no recollection of having been gone, or taken. Benny had reported that news on his own and Dean felt thankful that the wives had closure and happiness, but a dark part of him felt bitter about the fact that they got their happy ending and he was left… empty.

He keeps the bedroom dark. He showers by candlelight. The book Castiel left on the vanity is still there, untouched, and Dean can barely look at it. He feels Castiel’s absence like a hole in his head. He doesn’t know what happens to magical people when they die. Do they go to Heaven? Lucifer went to Hell, bound to the deal Gabriel made with the Devil. But what about Castiel and Jack? Is there a witch Heaven? Or maybe some sort of alternate reality, similar to Heaven, where white witches gather in the afterlife? 

Dean doesn’t cry. He oscillates between mind-numbing nothingness and bouts of rage, either staring into the darkness or taking out his anger on anything breakable. When he breaks things, though, that leads to guilt, so he uses what little magic he knows to mend vases and bookshelves and figurines. 

Someone has cleared all of the alcohol out of the house, Dean discovered the first night. 

Probably Sam. 

No one interrupts him, no one tries to talk to him or console him. His despair is a blanket over the entire house, his broken bond a nasty, shattered thing, contagious in its negativity. Sometimes Dean is pretty sure he’s totally alone in the house, but most times Dean knows that, at the minimum, Sam is down the hall in the guest room. 

He doesn’t always dream about Castiel.

He dreams about Jack, too. 

Pragmatic Jack, who thought so simply in black and white. Jack, whose strongest power and greatest curse was the power of Sight. 

He knew how things were going to end. Knew every possible outcome. Castiel didn’t trigger that blood sigil on his own. 

On the fourth day of solitude, Dean decides to leave the bedroom while the sun shines high in the sky. He’s wearing clean sweats and a clean t-shirt, quietly walking down the hallway, ears pricked. No sound from the second floor. It’s just after eleven, so if he’s lucky, everyone is off busy doing something else. The bookstore is still open and Sam is still its owner, and Dean knows he’s probably been ensuring that everything's still fine there. 

He makes it all the way to the kitchen without seeing anyone. Lavender and patchouli cling to his clothes and he holds onto that comforting scent, turning away from the kitchen island and walking towards the french doors, suddenly not hungry. Opening them takes a lot of mental fortitude, since Dean hasn’t set foot outside since locking himself in Castiel’s room, but once he feels the sun on his skin he lets out a pleased sigh, walking out onto the porch. The wood is warm under his bare feet and he stands at the railing, bending to fold his arms on it as he peers out at the backyard. It’s calm today. Warm, sunny. Deceptively peaceful. 

Some parts of Castiel’s garden have died. 

Dean pointedly doesn’t look at the dead flowers, instead surveying the treeline. He doesn’t feel any less depressed about Castiel being gone, but this is at least a step towards healing, he thinks. One step at a time. He knows he shouldn’t try to do it alone, but he’s still nervous to see anyone. He knows they’ll look at him with guilt, with pity, and he doesn’t think he can stomach that. 

He already feels guilty and pitiful enough. 

His chest feels empty. He hasn’t looked at himself in the mirror at all; he’ll see Castiel’s brand, his marks. He’ll see the ghost he can’t face. 

His eyes sting. Hanging his head, Dean stares at the grain of the wood under his arms, fighting back the tears. Anger starts bubbling up in his gut once more and he straightens, gripping the railing tightly as he tips his head back. He stares at the ceiling of the porch, takes in a few shuddery breaths, and then clenches his fist to punch the wood pillar in a spark of fury. Pain blossoms up from his knuckles all the way to his shoulder but he ignores it, swinging with his other hand. The wood barely budges. 

Dean lets out an anguished sound and sinks to his knees, one hand still up on the railing, his other palm pressing against the ache behind his sternum, head hanging.

“You fucking _idiot_ ,” Dean says out loud. “You could have _lived_.” He sits back on his haunches, staring out at the sky. “I was gonna make a deal, man. I was gonna save your life and you-” he scrubs a hand over his mouth, then yells furiously. “You took that away from me! You fucking asshole!”

A few birds scatter from the surrounding trees. Feeling his energy drain from his body, Dean slumps and presses his head to one of the slats of the porch railing. Closing his eyes, Dean feels a fine tremble run through his frame, his breath hitching with a choked back sob.

“You asshole,” he says quieter, weaker. 

He doesn’t know how long he kneels there. When he shifts his knees protest and his thighs burn as he stands, using the railing to help heft himself up. He wearily walks back inside, shutting the french doors behind him. The basement door stares at him and without really thinking about it Dean opens the door, mildly surprised that it’s not locked. He goes down the stairs slowly, and is once again hit with that lavender and patchouli smell, along with a faint trace of burning embers and ozone. He checks the candles to make sure they’re not lit, because the extra layers of the scent seem a little too fresh, and then he stands in the center of the room in front of the altar. Very slowly he lowers himself to kneel on the cushion left there from whenever Castiel meditated last, his legs unwilling to bend again so soon after kneeling on the hard wood of the porch. Shifting himself to sit cross-legged, Dean rests his palms on his knees, staring at the altar.

Castiel used to meditate frequently. Dean was never any good at it, unable to shut off his brain long enough to feel any sort of true calm. Right now, sitting in front of Castiel’s altar, on Castiel’s cushion, surrounded by Castiel’s magic, Dean closes his eyes and wills himself to calm down. 

Breathe in.

Breathe out. 

Find calm.

A slight popping noise makes him open his eyes. One of the candles on the altar has been lit. Brow furrowing in confusion, Dean stares at the candle for a minute before closing his eyes again, relaxing once more.

Two more pops. 

Dean’s eyes open again. Three of the seven candles are lit. Drumming his fingers over his knee thoughtfully, Dean closes his eyes once more. This time he keeps them closed, breathing deeply and thoroughly, feeling the air cleanse his lungs and purify him from the inside out. More pops, and then a loud _crack!_ , which has Dean jumping slightly and opening his eyes to look at the altar.

All of the candles are lit, including the black one in the center. 

Dean didn’t do it. At least- he’s pretty sure he didn’t do it. Tilting his head, he gets up off of the cushion and walks towards the altar. The wood frame of it trembles slightly and when Dean reaches out to touch it, an electric shock passes through his hand. Hissing and drawing back, Dean purses his lips to blow out the candles - but then the floorboards beneath him rumble slightly. Looking down at his feet, Dean turns around slowly so he can face the rest of the room. Underneath the cushion the rattling intensifies, and Dean sees some of the boards actually lift - a strategic shape and amount of them, actually.

It looks like a trap door. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The rattling intensifies and he feels the heat of the flames behind him, and then just as quickly as it started, everything stops. Glancing around, suspicious, Dean steps towards the trap door. He moves the cushion aside and sees the tiniest knothole in the wood; curiously, he reaches down and puts his pinky finger inside, hooking and lifting gently. 

The trap door bursts open with such force Dean gets knocked back on his ass, dust swirling in the sunlight streaming in from the egress windows. He watches a shrouded figure levitate out of the hole, draped in black robes, and fear grips him tightly. He’s not powerful enough to fight. What can he do without Castiel? Scrambling backwards, Dean’s shoulders bumps against the altar, nearly knocking it over. The shrouded figure lands on the floor, blue smoke flowing sinuously from beneath its robes. Gloved hands reach up to its hood and Dean clenches his teeth, finding the irony of surviving Lucifer only to die in his own frigging basement a bit too much to handle.

The hood lowers, and all of the breath gets sucked out of Dean’s lungs.

It’s Castiel.

It’s _Castiel_.

Dean is frozen. His heart isn’t beating, his lungs aren’t breathing. From the trap door another figure emerges wearing blue robes and when its hood lowers it’s Jack, cheeks dimpled as he smiles at Dean. Castiel’s expression is soft, open, and Dean feels a pulse behind his sternum.

Castiel and Jack are dirty, smudged in dust and dirt, hair stuck in clumps.

For a heart stopping moment, Dean isn’t sure if what he’s seeing is real. But then the pulse behind his sternum blooms, the bond between hunter and warlock solidifying once more and filling him in every way that only Castiel can, and the air leaves Dean’s lungs in a pained _woosh_.

It’s really them.

This isn’t a trick. 

They meet halfway, Dean awkwardly launching himself up on weak legs as Castiel bends. Arms around each other they sink to the floor, Dean sobbing in relief, clutching tightly to Castiel and holding him so tight he might actually break him. Castiel takes it in stride, petting his hair, rubbing his shoulders, rocking them gently from side to side. All the pain, all the loss and sorrow, it vanishes. Castiel murmurs Russian words in Dean’s ear that he can’t decipher but feels them deep in his soul, and when they finally break away Dean looks up at the warlock through tears, clutching to the material of his black robes.

“Cas,” he breathes out.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets in that low voice of his, calm and serene.

Dean winds up and punches him square in the jaw. Castiel falls onto his butt in surprise and Jack hurries to his side, sending wide eyes to Dean. 

“You _idiot_ ,” Dean hiccups through a sob. “You fucking _asshole_ , don’t you _ever_ do anything like that again!”

Castiel actually manages to laugh, reaching up to tenderly touch his jaw, blue eyes alight as he regards Dean. “It won’t be necessary.”

Dean slumps back against the altar, pressing his hands over his eyes. “Jesus. Tell me it worked.”

“It did,” Jack says cheerfully. “Thanks to your distraction, Castiel was able to detonate my bomb. Lucifer is gone.” 

The images flash in Dean’s mind, causing him to press the heels of his palms harder into his sockets. “Yeah, still kinda messed up from it.” He saw them _die_.

“Dean,” Castiel kneels in front of the hunter, reaching out to grasp his wrists gently to lower his hands from his face. He catches his eye and says, “I am sorry you had to see that. And I am sorry I could not return to you until now.” 

“Where did you even come from?” Dean asks, gaze sliding towards the trap door, which Jack is currently shutting. “Did you really die?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, his tone heavy. “We did. The instant Jack detonated, I transported our souls here.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “What?” 

Castiel helps him to his feet, holding his hands gently. “Our bodies perished, but I managed to save our souls. Under this house is sacred ground. As long as a soul gets buried in the dirt, new body may arise.”

“You’ve got magic dirt under the house?” Dean asks incredulously.

Castiel smiles wryly. “I have many tricks up my sleeve, Dean. Our souls burrowed in the dirt and had to rest for two days and two nights. Then, our bodies formed. And once we were strong enough, we were able to dig ourselves out of our graves… and now we are here.” Castiel says, using their joined hands to gesture to the here and now. 

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Dean asks, hurt and anger lacing his voice. “I spent all that time- I- I _mourned_ you.”

“Ritual magic is finicky,” Castiel says softly, “and raising someone from the dead crosses a line. Since you and I are bonded, it was necessary for you to believe me dead for the magic to work.”

Dean tenses his jaw. Forced necromancy. “That’s shitty. That’s fucking _shitty_ Cas, and you know it.” 

“I do not make the rules,” Castiel says, apology in his voice. “But Jack and I are here now, reborn, and you needn’t mourn any longer.” 

Dean huffs out a watery laugh. Castiel is still so _Cas_ and he’s infinitely thankful that dying and coming back to life doesn’t seem to have changed him at all. Feeling himself growing weak, Dean leans forward and rests his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder. Closing his eyes, he inhales lavender and patchouli, fire and ozone, earth and dirt. Castiel holds tightly to him. 

For the first time since the explosion, Dean allows the weariness and exhaustion in his bones to sweep him away into slumber.

Castiel is back.

Castiel is alive.

\--**--

Castiel had suspected that as soon as Dean knew he was alive and safe, he would pass out. Castiel knows Dean well enough to know that Dean had kept himself up to all sorts of odd hours and probably rarely slept. He also knows Dean well enough to know that he would have neglected himself in some warped display of guilt. So Dean is slightly thinner, paler, and there are heavy bags under his eyes - all things Castiel had expected, but is still pained to see. After tucking Dean into bed and murmuring a spell to keep him asleep until his body is sufficiently recharged, Castiel descends the stairs. 

Gabriel bursts into the front door, Sam in tow, and punches Castiel exactly where Dean had earlier. 

“You _IMBECILE_ ,” Gabriel yells. 

Sam places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Gabriel’s eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks puffy and swollen, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Sam doesn’t look much better, his tall form hunched slightly from tiredness and emotional wear. Castiel rubs his jaw, works it around a bit with his fingers, and then sends Gabriel a soft smile.

“Good afternoon, Gabriel.” 

“ _You_ ,” Gabriel puts his pointer finger directly in Castiel’s chest, “got a lotta fuckin’ nerve.” He gestures at the black robes hanging from Castiel’s body. “You preach all the time about necromancy being the point of no return, and _look at this_!”

“It was not necromancy, Gabriel,” Castiel says patiently. He looks towards Sam, “Would you like some lunch?” 

Jack comes from the living room and brightens considerably, walking over towards Sam and immediately pressing himself into the man’s side for a hug, which is returned tenderly. From over Jack’s head Sam nods, and they all shuffle into the kitchen, Gabriel still muttering under his breath. 

“You said the soil was still in its trial stages,” Gabriel says as he sits on a stool, arms folded petulantly over his chest. “Said you couldn’t even bring back a flower.” 

“That is true,” Castiel says as he puts the kettle on. “I wasn’t sure I could do it. Transporting Dean back here and then also moving our souls… I thought for sure I wouldn’t be able to come back.”

“So then what was different?” Sam asks. Jack is still glued to his side, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Dean,” Castiel says simply. “He mourned our broken bond so strongly it reached me in Limbo, which is how far our souls initially got.” Gabriel shudders at the mention of that place. “Drawing on his power from there, I was able to guide us back here. I think without Dean… we would have been dead for good.” 

Gabriel snorts, “How cliche. ‘Love will save us all’. What bullshit.” 

Castiel sends him an even look, “You know as well as I that our magic thrives off of pure connections.”

“That’s a pretty boring way to say Dean’s bleeding heart brought you back from the dead,” Gabriel mutters.

“Are you going to give me attitude for my magic, or are you happy to see me?” Castiel grouses. “With Lucifer gone I am the most powerful warlock. Is it really so unbelievable that I could bring myself back from the dead?” 

“Well when you put it like that,” Gabriel huffs. “Also: check your ego.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “If it weren’t for Dean’s will, I would not be here. Is that less ego?”

“Back from the dead for less than a day and back to being a pain in my ass,” Gabriel mutters, even though his eyes are bright with amusement.

The kettle squeals and Castiel steeps four mugs of tea, passing them out. He then sets about making sandwiches for everyone; just simple things, nothing too extravagant. It’s clear groceries haven’t been replenished in the past week so pickings are slim. No one complains though and once their plates are picked clean and cleared, Castiel lets out a little breath. 

“I do feel guilty for leaving you all in the dark,” he admits. “But you would not have let me carry out the plan and we would have lost.” 

He’s met with silence.

After a beat, Sam says quietly, “Dean was gonna sacrifice himself for you. Bond to Lucifer so the rest of us could go free.”

Castiel smiles grimly. “I heard him. I am only glad we were able to detonate the bomb before Lucifer could take hold of him.”

“It was a close call. Too close.” Gabriel continues. “Your boy was dumb enough to even come up with that plan.”

“I don’t think it was stupid,” Castiel counters. “I thought it was admirable. Through everything we have gone through… with the possible outcome being either apocalypse or join with evil, Dean was ready to make a righteous sacrifice. It wouldn’t have stopped Lucifer entirely, but it would have slowed him down enough for us to come up with another plan. It may have seemed like an irrational decision to you, Gabriel, but I know Dean was thinking at least two steps ahead in offering himself to Lucifer. He shot him with witch killing bullet at the last second, cementing his death, you know.” His eyes narrow. “You don’t give him enough credit.”

Gabriel raises his hands in innocence, “I’m not dissing him Cassie. I’m just saying, it was reckless.”

“And no matter what he did, the outcome was still the same. We defeated Lucifer and stopped the apocalypse.” Castiel replies evenly. “It would do you some good to show Dean respect, Gabriel. He was willing to give his life for you. For all of us.”

Gabriel is properly cowed by Castiel’s words. Sam looks fairly solemn, and Castiel catches him sending a long glance towards the staircase.

“He needs rest,” Castiel says softly. “You are welcome to stay here until he wakes, but it might be a day or so.”

Sam shakes his head, grimacing. “No, I gotta get back to the bookstore. Kevin and Alfie are running it but I don’t want to leave them alone for too long.”

Castiel warms at the mention of Dean’s employees back to work. “Of course, Sam. Come back when you can.”

Nodding, Sam gets off of his stool and sends a meaningful look to Gabriel, who looks like he’s gearing up for an argument - but he deflates at the last second, grumbling. 

“Fine, fine. We’ll be back tomorrow.” 

Jack sends Castiel a curious glance, and then seems to make a decision as he too stands from his stool. “Sam, may I come with you?”

Sam blinks curiously, looking over at Castiel, who also looks mildly confused. “Sure, Jack. Need to pack a bag?” 

Jack shakes his head, “No, I left one at your house.” 

Sam offers Jack a small smile. “Alright. Let’s go.” 

Gabriel is the last to leave the kitchen. He hovers in the doorway as Sam and Jack head outside, and Castiel is busy steeping another teabag, not giving in to Gabriel’s puppy dog eyes. After a moment Gabriel lets out a blustery sigh, and then says under his breath, “I’m glad you’re back, Castiel.”

Castiel smiles at his mug when he hears the front door shut. He has a few phone calls to make.

\--

Dean wakes approximately twenty-four hours later. Castiel senses his awareness immediately and gets up from the couch to head up the stairs, peeking into the master bedroom. Dean is sitting up against the padded headboard rubbing his eyes and Castiel’s heart melts as he slips into the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Dean looks up with surprised eyes, like he can’t believe it all over again, and Castiel is at his side in the next moment, wrapping Dean up in his arms. Again Dean weeps, openly and brokenly, clinging to Castiel with his face pressed into the crook of his neck, and Castiel feels the loss all at once, feels all the pain Dean went through alone in his absence. 

He lets Dean cry until the tears won’t come anymore, and then he helps Dean up to lead him to the bathroom. He sets Dean down on the stool and then works on drawing the bath, dumping all of the calming salts into the water, and all of the aches and pains for good measure. He murmurs a prayer under his breath and then kisses his fingertips, bending to run them through the milky water, watching the color shift from white to soft orchid. Turning towards Dean it’s a little concerning to see green eyes fixated on the floor, Castiel’s heart clenching in reply.

“Let us get you undressed,” Castiel speaks softly, barely heard over the rush of the bath water. 

Carefully, Castiel pulls the shirt off over Dean’s head, dropping it to the floor. He helps Dean stand, dropping a kiss to a freckled shoulder as he pushes down rumpled sweatpants and boxers. Dean’s lack of reaction to being naked is worrisome. But he goes willingly when Castiel guides him to the bath, sinking down into the steaming water with a flutter of his long, golden lashes. It only takes a moment of deliberation before Castiel strips as well, climbing into the bathtub behind Dean, drawing the man’s back to his chest, his legs bracketing his frame. 

Dean settles into him. He comes to himself with every deep breath of the crystals, and Castiel feels the tension physically leaving his body as he relaxes. Dean’s head tips back against Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel grabs a washcloth, wetting it and dragging it slowly across Dean’s torso, his fingertips following the milky trail to press into the magical marks burned into Dean’s skin. It’s intimate. It’s the closest they’ve ever been with no expectations, and Castiel cherishes it. Dean is still upset over Castiel’s decisions, he knows, but the bath will help him let go of the negativity that had infiltrated his brain - negativity that not only brewed from Lucifer’s dark magic touching his mind, but negativity brought by a broken bond. 

They sit in silence for fifteen minutes, Castiel aimlessly dragging the cloth over Dean’s skin. 

“Jack said he’s able to see all possibilities of a future,” Dean says, low voice breaking the silence. “That nothing is set in stone, because people can change their own destiny. So he can’t predict the exact future, but he can see all the different timelines.” 

Castiel hums. He’d been wondering if Dean had gotten around to asking Jack what his powers were, and he’s glad he’s not disappointed. “This is true.” 

“Did he tell you what he saw?” Dean asks. “Before you carved that sigil into your chest… did you know I was gonna offer myself to Lucifer?” 

“It had been brought up as a possibility,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “I had thought of it before Jack had even said anything.”

“When did you know you were gonna do it?” Dean’s voice is still soft. Tired. There’s no heat in his words, just genuine curiosity. 

“When Rowena performed the spell to give me power over the bomb,” Castiel says.

Dean’s head lolls a bit, turning towards Castiel’s neck. “You’re such an asshole,” he whispers, breath puffing over the slope of Castiel’s throat. He shifts a little, water sloshing as he turns to face Castiel. Instead of angry his eyes are desperate, brows knit. “Don’t ever do anything like that again without talkin’ to me about it. I don’t care what stupid plan you come up with, you can’t leave me in the dark like that again.” 

Smiling softly Castiel reaches up to cup Dean’s chin, stroking wet thumbs over freckled cheekbones. “I won’t, Dean. The war is over. I am by your side, always.”

Dean’s eyes glisten but he doesn’t cry, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. After a shaky inhale and long exhale, “If you think dying and coming back to life is a ticket into my pants, you’re in for a big surprise, bud.”

Castiel huffs out a surprised laugh, pulling back slightly to look at Dean, whose expression has turned soft and amused, despite the quiver in his lips. Moving a thumb to press gently against Dean’s plush lower lip, Castiel drags his gaze over Dean’s face, committing every curve and shadow to memory. “I have no such expectations.” 

Dean shifts again to resume his position reclined against Castiel’s chest. He’s breathing steadier, his heartbeat regulated, and when he lets out a soft breath, Castiel knows he’s finally feeling more like himself. 

They stay in the bath, the milky orchid-colored water cleansing them of their ailments, emotional and physical, their bond strengthening and reaching towards one another to entwine them stronger than before. The road to recovery will be a long one. Castiel isn’t naive enough to think that Dean will forgive him so easily, but he’s brave enough to know that the day will come. 

For now, he is thankful to be alive.

For now, he is thankful to have Dean with him once more. 

The rest they will take on together.

\--**--

It takes Dean another few days to come back to his true self. A lot of food, a lot of bad movies, some beer, and nights cuddled up in the safety of Castiel’s embrace have him right as rain, more or less. He heads back to town to finally meet with his landlord and insurance providers to talk about rebuilding, and even though the site of his cafe is cleared of all the rubble and now just an empty slab, he still vividly remembers the wreckage and the blood stains of his employee’s lifeless body. But he soldiers on, signs a few pieces of paper, and changes the name of the cafe to _Mik’s_ , grand opening set for a year from now. Since it will be an entirely new building Dean has been given permission to draw up new blueprints, which he’s definitely excited about. Alfie and Kevin remain at _Uncle Bobby’s Books_ to help Sam until the cafe is back up and running, and on the non-magic front, things are looking good. 

Sam moves in with Gabriel, and it doesn’t take a lot of thought for Dean to decide to sell the townhouse and move in with Castiel. He sees less of Charlie, which Castiel mentions is actually pretty normal; aside from being one of Castiel’s best confidants, Charlie also runs an IT business out of her home. Rowena disappears again, another thing Castiel says is normal, and Dean isn’t exactly sad to see her go. 

Every time Dean spends a moment with Jack he finds himself softening, warming. He pats Jack’s shoulder, ruffles his hair, draws him into one-armed hugs. That paternal instinct rears strong whenever they’re together and instead of fighting it and pretending it doesn’t exist, he welcomes it. Jack does, too. It’s a good feeling. Despite everyone being well aware that Jack can take care of himself, Dean is thankful that Jack allows him to be protective over him and, on occasion, mother hen him. 

Three months after what was almost the apocalypse, snow falls. It blankets the city in white, and Dean takes the time to admire the Quincy neighborhood for the short time it will be untouched. After the initial snowfall the residents will be out and about once more, footprints in powder, the streets turning slushy and grey from cars passing and Christmas decorations hung proudly. Dean’s got a satchel draped over his shoulder along with plastic tubes holding his completed blueprints and when he enters the cafe he’s surprised to see Castiel inside, alone among the bare bones of the foundation and outside structure. With all of the external walls erected and insulated it’s time to figure out the internal layout and decide what goes where, something Dean has been all too excited about.

It’s normal. It’s mundane. 

Castiel has gone back to being Dmitri, though he has a greatly different reputation now that news has gotten around that Lucifer will never be back. He still visits the housewives, even though their missing husbands have returned, and Benny still flanks him, looking intimidating as ever. Now Dmitri Krushnic is a force for good all on his own, operating in ways that the police cannot; it had only taken him two months to clear out any and all crime and drug lords in the greater Boston area, and aside from petty crimes, the city is as peaceful as it’s ever been.

“Hey,” Dean greets, shutting the door behind him. There’s no bell above it yet, but Dean has already decided that it would be the last touch on the cafe, right before the grand opening. 

Castiel turns around, blue eyes warm. He’s draped in that damn trench coat, the front of it buttoned up and fastened tightly. The cafe is insulated and enclosed, but until Dean gets an HVAC guy in, they’re keeping the place warm with space heaters and the newly installed fireplace whenever there’s people inside. Castiel’s already got the fireplace glowing, the base of the flames an iridescent blue. “Hello, Dean.” 

“What’s up?” Dean asks. Castiel doesn’t normally drop by the cafe, even when he’s in town doing his rounds. Dean pulls the satchel over his head and off his body, setting it on a makeshift table made of sawhorses and plywood. The tubes make an empty, hollow sound when he sets them down, and when he’s sure they won’t roll off the table he turns his attention back to Castiel. 

“You’ve made lot of progress,” Castiel says. His hands are in the pocket of his trench coat and Dean gets thrown back to a year and a half ago, meeting Castiel for the first time and hating his guts. It’s a little amazing how much has changed. Castiel nods his head towards the back of the building, where plumbing had been installed earlier in the day. “You are here to measure for interior?”

Dean quirks his lips at Castiel’s sentence structure, taking a rare moment to appreciate his accent and the way his r’s roll off of his tongue. It’s easy to listen to Castiel without registering his accent, mostly because Dean has spent so long listening to him in general. But sometimes Dean’s ears prick in interest, sometimes he catches Castiel’s grammatical failings, and it makes his insides squirm pleasantly. “Yeah, I am.” He finally says. 

Nodding, Castiel walks over towards where Dean put down his stuff. “Things will go quickly from here on out, yes?”

“They should,” Dean says. He uncaps one of the tubes and unrolls it so Castiel can see. They stand close together, familiar and comfortable. 

“This is different layout,” Castiel murmurs as he traces his fingers over the white lines. “Is this what you originally wanted?” 

“Yeah,” Dean grins. “The old layout wasn’t bad, but I didn’t like that the kitchen was so closed off. I think it’s cool when the customers can get a little view of what’s happening behind the scenes. Not a totally open concept, but it’s kinda neat to see the chef kneading dough or frosting cupcakes.” 

Castiel seems to think about it for a moment, before nodding. “It does have charm.” His gaze focuses on Dean, his pink lips quirked at the corners. “Especially when the chef is so nice to look at.” 

Dean feels a flush spread from his cheeks to his ears, and he covers it by bringing his hands up to his mouth, cupping them and blowing into them. He can pass off the flush as him being cold, hopefully. “So what are you doing here?”

Castiel shrugs and on him, the gesture seems so… foreign. He’s always decisive when he speaks or acts, no hesitation, and whenever he shrugs or seems to debate an answer, it makes Dean’s stomach swoop. Scary as he knows Castiel to be, he knows the guy is still human, even if sometimes Dean thinks about checking for a power switch. But ever since the apocalypse-that-never-was, something about Castiel has… softened. Not only towards Dean (which, of course, Dean knows Castiel has softened towards him because of the bond) but towards everyone else. Everything else. And yeah, alright, Dean has always known that underneath that strong jaw and narrowed brow Castiel is a huge teddy bear, but it’s different to see him express his emotions so… openly.

Almost like the weight of the world was lifted off of his shoulders.

And, Dean thinks, maybe it has been.

“You’ve been so busy,” Castiel finally answers Dean’s question, “and I’ve been so busy. We haven’t seen each other much.” 

“We live together,” Dean counters, even though Castiel isn’t wrong. He occupies his hands by spreading out the blueprints and putting weights on the corners so they don’t roll back up, unsure as to why his stomach is doing all this weird fluttering. His relationship with Castiel has been tumultuous at best, and even after bonding and that hurried frotting session in the kitchen, it’s still difficult to navigate things. Castiel still pisses him off, Dean still pisses Castiel off, and now that there’s not a war looming over their heads things seem less… urgent. They no longer need to ‘get along or else the world explodes’. They’ve settled into the ‘after’ era, the ‘after’ that Castiel had once softly, implicitly asked Dean about in a quiet moment of companionship, the ‘after’ that neither of them knew they were dreading. 

The era that Dean said wouldn’t change things between them. The era that Dean had said wouldn’t be so difficult; they went back to their regular lives, not necessarily like nothing happened, but it’s turning out to be rather… directionless. Not to say that they aren’t doing anything important - Castiel’s role as Dmitri is still nothing to sneeze at, especially when non-magic affiliates of Lucifer’s gang are still roaming around and need to be taken out. And Dean’s rebuilding the cafe, so it’s not like he’s got idle hands. 

But aside from the bond, suddenly it feels like there’s nothing tying them together. 

Dean blinks down at the blueprints, the realization settling heavy in his gut. Swallowing thickly, he looks over towards Castiel, who has his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and is staring off into the bare bones of the cafe with a little smile on his features. Dean’s heart squeezes, his jaw tenses, and then he straightens up. Castiel must sense the change in his mood because he turns around, head tilted, blue eyes concerned.

“Dean?” 

“Do I still annoy you?” 

Castiel blinks rapidly at the question, head tilting further as he squints. “...Sometimes, yes.”

“What annoys you?” Dean asks, and the desperation to know is starting to churn violently in his stomach. 

Exhaling, Castiel’s shoulders relax slightly. The asshole then lifts a hand to start ticking things off on his fingers as he says them, “You completely rearranged my kitchen; you take too long in shower; you manicure my lawn by hand instead of magic, which takes much longer; you chew with your mouth open; you-”

“Jesus-” Dean cuts him off, waving a hand and letting out a delirious laugh. “Seriously?”

Castiel sends Dean a blasé look. “You asked. I told.” 

Running a hand down his face, Dean takes a moment to look at Castiel. With his trench coat fastened all the way up and his hands in his pockets the only tattoos visible are the cirrus clouds stretching up his throat. In passing they could just look like shadows from the collar of his coat, strangers none the wiser. His hair is windswept, the stubble on his jaw is neatly trimmed, and he looks like just a regular guy. Not like a powerful mafia boss, not even like the most powerful warlock in the world. 

More like a tax accountant ready to unwind after a long day of crunching numbers.

There’s the tiniest of smiles playing on Castiel’s lips. “And you? What annoys you?” 

Dean wasn’t really expecting the question to be turned on him, but he replies anyway. Without ticking things off on his fingers, thanks. “You wake up way too fuckin’ early. When I rearrange the kitchen you put things back where they were, and-” he holds up his hand to cut off Castiel’s protest, “I don’t care _what_ you say, my way is better, and I’m the one doin’ most of the cooking anyway. You leave wet towels on the floor in the bathroom, your jewelry box is basically useless because you just leave your rings and necklaces on the top of the dresser in a tangle, and you always, _always_ neglect to tell me when you’ve drank the last of the milk, and that’s always a rude surprise when I’m tryna make food.”

Castiel blinks slowly at Dean. Both of them stare at each other for a moment, tense, and Dean thinks that pointing out each other’s flaws was a fucking stupid thing to do and hates his brain (and his gut) for steering the conversation in this direction. Castiel is rigid, shoulders hunched a little, brow set and eyes narrowed. He takes a step forward and Dean takes a step back, his hip hitting the makeshift table. He drops a hand to steady it and make sure the plywood doesn’t fall off the sawhorses, his stomach lurching in a mix of trepidation and curiosity. 

“One more thing that annoys me,” Castiel says, his voice almost a growl. He continues to step forward and Dean starts shuffling to the side, trying to get his work out of the blast zone. In an instant the gap closes between them and Castiel grabs at the front of Dean’s coat, twisting it up a little, his rings glinting in the low light; Dean is always shocked at Castiel’s physical strength and he can’t help but let out a little whimper in reply. Castiel’s eyes narrow. “You never shut up.” 

The startled laugh Dean tries to let out gets swallowed by Castiel’s lips. The levee breaks, the tension snaps and Dean kisses him back hungrily, mouth opening, tongue sliding, teeth clacking. The makeshift table gets bumped again and Dean tries to get his feet to work and get away from the table but Castiel is crowding him, devouring him, and Dean barely manages to get away from the plywood only for Castiel to push him up against a support pillar. The breath leaves him in a needy moan and Dean flushes from head to toe at the pitch of it. Castiel only crowds him more, sliding a thigh between his legs, sparks falling from their lips as they kiss, a shower of green and blue. Dean pulls back for a second to check to make sure that he’s not imagining the static and sees Castiel’s eyes glowing, arousal pulsing through his body in reply. 

“Cas, wait-” Dean huffs out, even though he doesn’t try to push Castiel away. Instead he’s trying to pull the man closer, wanting to feel more of that strong thigh against his groin. “Not here.” 

Castiel’s eyes flash and then suddenly the air cracks around them, Dean’s stomach lurching, and then they’re falling into their bed at home. One of these days magic _won’t_ make him nauseous. The resulting burst of wind knocks off the bedside lamp, books go scattering, and half of the bedding falls to the floor. Castiel has Dean pinned down on the mattress and wastes no more time, attacking his mouth, bejeweled hands pulling at Dean’s clothes. Dizzy from the transport Dean only manages to wiggle around a little so Castiel can get him naked, and when his brain finally comes back online he reaches out to give the man the same treatment. 

Starting with that _fucking_ trench coat. 

He manages to not pop any of the buttons but he fumbles with them anyway, arousal coursing through his system causing his limbs to shake and fingers to tremble. He fights the sash for about ten seconds before huffing and dropping back against the bed; Castiel smirks and snaps his fingers, the trenchcoat disappearing altogether. 

“Neat trick,” Dean breathes. “Get naked.”

Another snap, and Dean wants to make fun of Castiel breaking his fairly rigid “no magic for trivial tasks” rule but since he’s benefitting from this particular use of magic, he’s not gonna say a word. Suddenly Castiel is naked, tan skin and tattoos on display. He magicked away his jewelry too and Dean reaches up to greedily run his palms over the breadth of Castiel’s chest, marveling at the solidity of it, partially unable to believe that this man - this infuriating, frustrating man - is allowing him to see this part of him. Castiel seems to be experiencing similar emotions and through their bond there’s a volley of rapture and awe and affection, Dean getting slightly lightheaded from it. 

Castiel starts settling between Dean’s legs and Dean tenses _just_ a smidge, fingers curling around Castiel’s strong shoulders.

“Wait, wait,” Dean protests. “You- you’re not gonna top.” 

Settling back on his haunches, Castiel rolls his eyes. “Are you really going to argue this?” 

Dean glares.

“Ah this is…” Castiel gestures vaguely with his hand, frowning thoughtfully as he reaches for the English words. “Fragile masculinity that Gabriel told about.” 

Dean bristles, hackles raising. “Woah, that is _not_ -” 

“If that is how you prefer,” Castiel shrugs. His cock is hard between his legs, wide at the base and dripping at the head, and Dean can’t help but stare at it.

Dean lifts his gaze back up to Castiel’s eyes with great effort. “You’re giving up that easy?” 

Castiel arches a brow, but the curl of his lips is _infuriating_ when he says, “You are sore loser. I would rather not hear you whine before sex.” 

Dean’s jaw drops. “ _What_?” 

Castiel shrugs, leaning over Dean to reach the nightstand and open the drawer. His cock slides into the vee of Dean’s pelvis and his hips twitch reflexively, seeking out the heat and friction. His own cock is hard, the length of it lying against his stomach, and on impulse he reaches up to grab Castiel’s shoulders once he grabs the lube, flipping them over to pin Castiel down to the bed. Castiel lands with a breathless chuckle, hair dark and wild as it fans over the pillow, blue eyes bright as he looks up at Dean. Dean’s heart trips up into his throat at the expression, and for a moment they just stare at each other - until Dean’s traitorous mouth decides to break the silence.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, why do I love you?” 

Castiel’s eyes widen slightly.

Dean’s eyes widen slightly. 

A beat passes, and then Castiel says, “I could say same about you.” 

Dean feels a little less like puking, knowing the sentiment is returned, even in an unconventional way. But things between him and Castiel have never been cut and dry; if they can have a conversation without arguing it’s a miracle, and it figures that a moment like this would be no different. As far as love confessions go it’s pretty on par and barely puts a hitch in their imminent plans because Castiel wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, drawing him in so their cocks glide together, his hands lifting to tangle his fingers into Dean’s hair. 

“Now, will you fuck me?” Castiel asks, his voice iron in a forge as it ricochets down Dean’s spine. 

Huffing a laugh, Dean takes the lube from Castiel’s hand and sets it aside. He kneels between Castiel’s legs and runs his hands over the tops of those strong thighs, feeling the soft downy hair beneath his palm, coming to the decision that from now on out he’s going to do his best to memorize every tattoo placement on Castiel’s body. Castiel seems content to let him look, so Dean does. His fingers trail where his eyes go, and it’s a quiet appreciation and admiration of Castiel’s body. The tattoos he had to get to signify himself as a mafia man mixed in with the tattoos he got to ward himself would look like a mish-mash to anyone else, but to Dean he understands the importance and necessity of each of them. From his ankles up to his groin, and then from his hips to his fingertips, the ink on Castiel’s body is just another thing to admire. And Dean will save the sappiness for a later time - but he still takes a moment to look his fill.

“Roll over,” Dean instructs. 

Castiel sends him a sly smirk but does as told, his movement graceful and fluid as he lies on his stomach. His knees spread a little and Dean curls his fingers around his sharp hips to lift him up, and then he’s staring down the length of Castiel’s naked back for the first time. The charred feathers that intersperse the sigils and Cyrillic letters accumulate on Castiel’s back in an image of broken wings on either shoulder blade. There are more clouds, these ones a bit fluffier until they meet the dark cirrus clouds that wind up and around his throat, and at the knob in Castiel’s spine is what is, undoubtedly, an angel halo.

Dean’s fingers reach down to trace the wings, and then press gently against the halo. Castiel hums at the touch, shifts his body so he braces himself properly on spread knees, cock hanging heavy between his legs as he reaches to grab a pillow so he can bring it under his chest. Dean wants to ask about the angel halo but his eyes get distracted by his handprint on Castiel’s shoulder and he reaches to lay his palm over it - Castiel hisses sharply and the handprint on Dean’s shoulder gives an answering throb. 

The bond sings. 

Spreading Castiel’s cheeks with his palms, Dean leans down and mouths over his hole a bit sloppily at first, tongue giving a fat, broad stroke. Castiel’s spine dips a little and Dean catalogues every sensation; the ridges of his pucker, the light dusting of hair, the warmth radiating from his skin. Dean takes his time licking Castiel open because the sounds Castiel makes go straight to his cock, and Castiel probably thinks he’s so cool and calm and collected, but the way he’s responding to Dean eating him out breaks down barriers that Dean has been trying to get through since they’ve met.

The way to a man’s heart is through his ass, it seems. 

Dean pulls away to spit directly on Castiel’s hole, his thumb sliding over to catch and tug on the rim. Castiel squirms, his hips rocking, cock leaking, and Dean watches with rapt attention as the muscles in his back twitch and flex. His other hand moves to Castiel’s cock, stroking it, and fuck, his fingers can barely wrap around the girth of it. He briefly imagines trying to fit it inside of himself and while the idea is daunting, a little thrill zings through him anyway, and he figures he’ll have to prove Castiel wrong about that whole fragile masculinity thing… later. 

He uncaps the lube and Castiel seems to get impatient, propping himself up on his hands and twisting slightly so he can look at Dean over his shoulder. His pupils are blown, cheeks flushed and lips bitten red, and Dean almost drops the lube before he can cap it. Once his fingers are slicked he brushes them over Castiel’s hole; Castiel _rolls his eyes_ and pushes his hips back, reaching behind himself to grab Dean’s wrist and force his index finger to slide in.

“I won’t break,” Castiel says in that earth-shattering voice, the timbre of it raspier and thicker with arousal. 

Well, then. Swallowing the lump in his throat Dean works his finger in carefully, and he knows the mechanics of how this works but honestly, he’s never gotten this far with a guy before. Experimental college dates usually ended with mutual handjobs and he’d been ok with that. But the need, the desire to unite with Castiel physically is way too strong to ignore, bond or not. He wants to see this man come undone beneath him, he wants to shatter his control and his ego, wants to pull him apart piece by piece and then put him back together. Two fingers in has Castiel dropping his chest back down towards the pillow and exhaling hotly, his knees digging into the mattress and spreading farther apart. 

“Dean,” Castiel moans. 

Dean’s world has narrowed down to the sensation of Castiel’s body clenched tight around his fingers. The clench of his walls so unyielding and so soft at the same time has Dean flushed all the way down to his chest with anticipation, and then Castiel is reaching back once more to pull Dean’s fingers out by his wrist. Castiel uses one hand to spread his left cheek, exposing his fluttering hole, smearing lube across his skin. Understanding the invitation Dean slicks up his own cock and positions himself, at first sliding the length of it up and down Castiel’s crack, pressing the head against his perineum and watching his balls tense up in reply. But Castiel gets impatient, of course, and before Dean can slip his cock into that sweet, stretched hole Castiel is suddenly sitting up and turning his body around.

The sudden movement catches Dean off-guard and before he knows it he’s on his back, upside down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as Castiel climbs over him to straddle his lap and sink down onto his cock. Dean lets out an undignified yelp of surprise/pleasure and his hands slap against Castiel’s thighs for purchase, the sound of skin on skin almost deafening in the room. It doesn’t phase Castiel, whose ass is resting against Dean’s pelvis, his hands on Dean’s chest to keep him pinned as he looms over him, sapphire eyes nearly as heavy as the man on top of him. 

“ _I will not break_ ,” Castiel practically growls. He swivels his hips, grinding down on Dean’s cock, and Dean feels his erection press up against every millimeter of Castiel’s body with the torturous movement. Castiel takes control, barely lifting himself, his thighs squeezing Dean’s hips hard enough to bruise as he rolls his body, perfectly content to just use Dean’s cock as he pleases.

Dean’s a big enough man to let it happen. 

Besides, it feels fucking incredible being pinned down by Castiel’s weight and strength, six feet of muscle reminding Dean that while he’s gotten fit over the past year, he still couldn’t best Castiel in a fight. Dean tips his head back, but he’s too close to the edge of the bed so his neck cranes nearly all the way back over the mattress. His eyelids close as he gets lost in the sensation of Castiel moving over him, blood starting to rush to his head, and then his lashes flutter open when he feels Castiel’s lips pressing sloppy kisses down the length of his arched and exposed throat. Groaning low, Dean reaches to where Castiel’s hands are planted on his chest, circling his fingers around those thick wrists and then tugging slightly, trying to encourage Castiel to move his hands. He manages to tip his head up enough to lock eyes with Castiel when his fingers brush his throat and Castiel’s lips part as realization dawns in his cobalt eyes, and Dean manages the tiniest of smirks before Castiel gets with the program. 

Castiel’s fingers wrapping around his throat are anything but dangerous. As Castiel fucks him, using his cock just the way he wants, Dean hands over any and all control to him. He’s under no illusion that he’s got an ounce of authority here. Dean’s balls are heavy and his cock is so hard he’s sure Castiel can feel his heartbeat in his asshole. Perhaps their first time having sex should be a little bit more tender, passionate- but their tryst in the kitchen was messy and aggressive and if that’s what sets the tone for the bedroom, Dean is happy to climb aboard, so to speak. And it just feels right, handing over the reins to Castiel. Differences aside, bond notwithstanding, Dean has learned to trust Castiel implicitly with everything he is. 

Figures as soon as he gets Castiel in the sack the first thing he asks for is to be choked. 

But it’s doing it for Castiel, too, and the man carefully adjusts his grip on Dean’s throat as he adjusts his body, shifting his legs and feet so he can finally properly lift himself up and drop himself back down onto Dean’s cock. The sensation of Castiel’s ass clenching around his shaft and his fingers around his throat has Dean seeing stars and hey, he didn’t think he was going to last long anyway. He doesn’t think Castiel will be that surprised either - if the way Castiel is increasing his pace is indicative of him quickly reaching his end, too.

Blearily, with eyes closed, Dean moves a hand to grip Castiel’s cock. He marvels again at the thickness of it before he starts clumsily stroking it, thumb swiping over the head occasionally to smear the precum since he can’t get a good grip on the girth of it. It seems to do the trick, anyway, but then Castiel bats his hand away; he chokes him with one hand and jerks himself off with the other and that’s it, that sight and thought alone makes Dean’s hips stutter and his orgasm rip through him. Stars explode behind his closed eyelids and he bucks his hips up into Castiel; Castiel releases his throat from his grip and the sudden influx of oxygen gives Dean a headrush and causes another wave of ecstasy to crash through him, more cum dribbling out of his flexing dick. He opens his eyes just in time to see Castiel spill over his own fist, ass clamping Dean’s cock, his head tipped back, his whole body on display for Dean to greedily drink up.

The cut of his jaw, the line of his throat, his flushed, tan skin. His heaving chest, the flex of his abs, the twitch in his thighs. 

The faint scarring from Dean’s teeth where they sank into the meat of his neck, disrupting the ink of the cirrus clouds.

He’s fucking beautiful.

And apparently still strong enough to haul Dean up and put him rightside up on the bed. Dean lets out a tiny warbled sound when his softening cock slips free from Castiel’s body, and with a snap of the warlocks fingers they’re clean and dry. Letting out a whoosh of breath Dean sinks down into the disarray of blankets and pillows, a smile tugging on his lips. 

“Damn,” he says uselessly. 

“Dean,” Castiel’s finger on his chin tips his head towards blue eyes, their gazes meeting. 

Dean’s expression softens minutely. “Yeah?”

“Did you mean what you said?” Castiel murmurs.

Dean wracks his brain for a second, belatedly remembering his love confession. “Uh-” he clears his throat a bit. “Yeah, I did. Do. Mean it.” 

The smile that Castiel gives him is full of teeth and gums, some wrinkles bunching the skin at the bridge of his nose. “Good.”

“You gonna say it back?” Dean asks, arching a brow.

Castiel pats his thigh a bit patronizingly. “You speak enough for both of us, remember? Never shut up.” 

Dean gapes after Castiel as the man gets out of bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Are you-? _Seriously_?” 

Castiel chuckles a little, rolling his shoulders. “Quiet down. Let’s take a shower and then go back to cafe to work.” 

Dean sits up, head turning to watch as Castiel disappears into the bathroom. After a moment he scrambles to get out of the bed, kicking away the blankets trying to tangle his feet up. 

“The apocalypse is over, y’know- you could be less of a dick.”

From where he’s standing at the shower testing the temperature of the water, Castiel sends Dean a soft look over his shoulder. “Dean, I love you.”

Dean pauses in the doorway, blinking in surprise.

Castiel rolls his eyes, his expression still fond. “Now, join me.”

As they climb into the shower together, the spray hitting them on all sides, the fragrant scent of lavender and patchouli materializing in the haze; Dean draws Castiel in to press a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. 

“I am happy you are here,” Castiel murmurs against Dean’s mouth. “My _solnyshka_.”

“What’s that mean?” Dean asks a bit distractedly as Castiel kisses down his jaw. 

“My sunshine,” Castiel says against his wet skin, “the sun I have been waiting to feel the warmth of.”

Chuckling lowly, the sound reverberating in his chest, Dean slides wet hands down Castiel’s spine to the dip in the small of his back. “We should have a celebratory drink. Cheers to a new life.”

“What would you like?” Castiel’s voice mimics Dean’s softness and richness as he picks up the shampoo bottle. “I could open a vintage bottle of wine I have been saving for long time.” 

“Maybe something a little classier,” Dean suggests. His head tips back a little as Castiel starts lathering his hair, green eyes regarding the warlock through his lashes. The corner of his lips quirk, the volley of warmth and buoyancy in his chest making him feel light on his feet. “I make a pretty good white russian.” 

Castiel’s eyes light with humor, his lips parting in a gummy smile as he absorbs Dean’s words. “That you do.” He uses his fingers in Dean’s hair to tip his head down for a soft, tender kiss, the gentle touch tingling Dean’s lips. “That you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there aren't really any words i can say to adequately express my gratitude and love for you all.   
> thank you so, so much for coming on this journey with me.  
> thank you to the people who came into my google doc and read this beast in its entirety to reassure me that it was an ~ok~ story before i got the guts to post it,  
> and thank you to the people who have followed along while it was a WIP and commented on every chapter (you guys are the true mvp's and i'm sorry for torturing you, but i also love you).   
> thank you to anyone and everyone who has ever read any of my work, past and present.  
> you truly motivate me to keep pushing my own limits.   
> White Russian is a love letter.  
> from me to the characters,  
> and from me to you.  
> thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> updates every Wednesday.  
> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes)


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